






































































































































































THE SILENT BULLET 














A well-directed blow shattered the mechanism of 
the delicate wheel. (Page 387) 






THE 

SILENT BULLET 


THE ADVENT URES OF CRAIG KENNEDY, 
SCIENTIFIC DETECTIVE 


BY 


ARTHUR B. REEVE 


AUTHOR OF 

THE POISONED PEN, 
THE TREASURE TRAIN, Etc. 


, FRONTISPIECE BY 

WILL FOSTER 



NEW YORK 


GROSS ET & DUNLAP 


PUBLISHERS 


Published by Arrangement with Harper & Brothers 









/'•???/ 



The Silent Bullet 

Copyright, 1910, by Harper & Brothers 
Printed in the United States of America 


F-T 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

Craig Kennedy’s Theories.1 

I The Silent Bullet.5 

II The Scientific Cracksman. 34 

III The Bacteriological Detective.65 

IV The Deadly Tube. 93 

V The Seismograph Adventure.122 

VI The Diamond Maker. S . .157 

VII The Azure Ring. 188 

VIII “Spontaneous Combustion” . . . . . .221 

IX The Terror in the Air.. 254 

X The Black Hand. 286 

XI The Artificial Paradise . ; . ..... . 319 

XII The Steel Door . . . ... w .... 355 































































-•’.V /• V : f; 








' 








S>. 


‘ 






V\V. ' 1 * 


W Ji A- ' ■ J > ,' T ■ 
















/'/I. *i 












.. f 













/*■' 


• * 


^ y * 






: 


y \ 










V. ' »• 'V . • : 1 ' , 

. 

Ji '• { /ivl 






THE SILENT BULLET 


\ 


CRAIG KENNEDY’S THEORIES 


“It has always seemed strange to me that no > 
one has ever endowed a professorship in criminal 
science in any of our large universities.” 

Craig Kennedy laid down his evening paper 
and filled his pipe with my tobacco. In college 
we had roomed together, had shared everything, 
even poverty, and now that Craig was a professor 
of chemistry and I was on the staff of the Star, 
tve had continued the arrangement. Prosperity 
found us in a rather neat bachelor apartment on 
the Heights, not far from the University. 

“Why should there be a chair in criminal sci¬ 
ence? ” I remarked argumentatively, settling 
back in my chair. “I’ve done my turn at police 
headquarters reporting, and I can tell you, Craig, 
it’s no place for a college professor. Crime is 
just crime. And as for dealing with it, the good 
detective is born and bred to it. College pro¬ 
fessors for the sociology of the thing, yes; for the 
detection of it, give me a Byrnes.” 

“ On the contrary,” replied Kennedy, his clean- 
cut features betraying an earnestness which I 
knew indicated that he was leading up to some¬ 
thing important, “there is a distinct place for 
science in the detection of crime. On the Con- 


2 


THE SILENT BULLET 

tinent they are far in advance of us in that re¬ 
spect. /We are mere children beside a dozen 
crime-specialists in Paris, whom I could name.” 

“Yes, but where does the college professor 
come in?” 1 asked, rather doubtfully. 

“You must remember, Walter,” he pursued, 
warming up to his subject, “that it's only within 
the last ten years or so that we have had the 
really practical college professor who could do 
it. The silk-stockinged variety is out of date 
now. To-day it is the college professor who is 
the third arbitrator in labour disputes, who re¬ 
forms our currency, who heads our tariff com¬ 
missions, and conserves our farms and forests , 
We have professors of everything—why not pro¬ 
fessors of crime?” 

Still, as I shook my head dubiously, he hurried 
on to clinch his point. “Colleges have gone a 
long way from the old ideal of pure culture. 
They have got down to solving the hard facts of 
life—pretty nearly all, except one. They still 
treat crime in the old way, study its statistics 
and pore over its causes and the theories of how it 
can be prevented. But as for running the crimi¬ 
nal himself down, scientifically, relentlessly — 
bah! we haven t made an inch of progress since 
the hammer and tongs method of your Byrnes.” 

‘Doubtless you will write a thesis on this most 
interesting subject,” I suggested, “and let it qo 
at that.” u 


CRAIG KENNEDY’S THEORIES 3 

“No, 1 am serious” he replied, determined for 
some reason or other to make a convert of me. 
“I mean exactly what I say. 1 am going to ap¬ 
ply science to the detection of crime, the same 
sort of methods by which you trace out the pres¬ 
ence of a chemical, or run an unknown germ to 
earth. And before 1 have gone far, 1 am going 
to enlist Walter Jameson as an aide. , 1 think 1 
shall need you in my business.” 

“How do I come in?” 

“Well, for one thing, you will get a scoop, a 
beat,—ivhatever you call it in that newspaper 
jargon of yours." 

I smiled in a sceptical way, such as newspaper¬ 
men are wont to affect toward a thing until it is 
done—after which we make a wild scramble to 
exploit it. 

Nothing more on the subject passed between 
us for several days. 




I 


THE SILENT BULLET 

“Detectives in fiction nearly always make a 
great mistake,” said Kennedy one evening after 
our first conversation on crime and science. 
“They almost invariably antagonise the regular 
detective force. Now in real life that’s impos¬ 
sible—it’s fatal.” 

“Yes,” I agreed, looking up from reading an 
account of the failure of a large Wall Street 
brokerage house, Kerr Parker & Co., and the pe¬ 
culiar suicide of Kerr Parker. “Yes, it’s im¬ 
possible, just as it is impossible for the regular 
detectives to antagonise the newspapers. Scot¬ 
land Yard found that out in the Crippen case.” 

“My idea of the thing, Jameson,” continued 
Kennedy, “is that the professor of criminal 
science ought to work with, not against, the reg¬ 
ular detectives. They’re all right. They’re in¬ 
dispensable, of course. Half the secret of suc¬ 
cess nowadays is organisation. The professor 
of criminal science should be merely what the 
professor in a technical school often is—a sort 
of consulting engineer. For instance, I believe 
that organisation plus science would go far to- 
6 


6 THE SILENT BULLET 

ward clearing up that Wall Street case I see you 
are reading.” 

I expressed some doubt as to whether the reg¬ 
ular police were enlightened enough to take that 
view of it. 

“Some of them are,” he replied. “Yesterday 
the chief of police in a Western city sent a man 
East to see me about the Price murder—you 
know the case? 

Indeed I did. A wealthy banker of the town 
had been murdered on the road to the golf club, 
no one knew why or by whom. Every clue had 
proved fruitless, and the list of suspects was it¬ 
self so long and so impossible as to seem most 
discouraging. 

“He sent me a piece of a torn handkerchief 
with a deep blood-stain on it,” pursued Kennedy. 
“He said it clearly didn’t belong to the murdered 
man, that it indicated that the murderer had 
himself been wounded in the tussle, but as yet it 
had proved utterly valueless as a clue. Would 
I see what I could make of it? 

“After his man had told me the story I had a 
feeling that the murder was committed by either 
a Sicilian labourer on the links or a negro waiter 
at the club. Well, to make a short story shorter, 
I decided to test the blood-stain. Probably you 
didn’t know it, but the Carnegie Institution has 
just published a minute, careful, and dry study 
of the blood of human beings and of animals. 


7 


THE SILENT BULLET 

In fact, they have been able to reclassify the whole 
animal kingdom on this basis, and have made 
some most surprising additions to our knowl¬ 
edge of evolution. Now I don’t propose to bore 
you with the details of the tests, hut one of the 
things they showed was that the blood of a cer¬ 
tain branch of the human race gives a reaction 
much like the blood of a certain group of monkeys, 
the chimpanzees, while the blood of another 
branch gives a reaction like that of the gorilla. 
Of course there’s lots more to it, but this is all 
that need concern us now. 

“I tried the tests. The blood on the handker¬ 
chief conformed strictly to the latter test. Now 
the gorilla was, of course, out of the question—* 
this was no Rue Morgue murder. Therefore it 
was the negro waiter.” 

“But,” I interrupted, “the negro offered a per¬ 
fect alibi at the start, and—” 

“No buts, Walter. Here’s a telegram I re¬ 
ceived at dinner: ‘ Congratulations. Confronted 

Jackson your evidence as wired. Confessed.’ ” 

“Well, Craig, I take off my hat to you,” I ex¬ 
claimed. “Next you’ll be solving this Kerr 
Parker case for sure.” 

“I would take a hand in it if they’d let me,” 
said he simply. 

That night, without saying anything, I saun¬ 
tered down to the imposing new police building 
amid the squalor of Center Street. They were 


8 


THE SILENT BULLET 


very busy at headquarters, but, having once had 
that assignment for the Star, I had no trouble in 
getting in. Inspector Barney O’Connor of the 
Central Office carefully shifted a cigar from cor¬ 
ner to corner of his mouth as I poured forth my 
suggestion to him. 

“Well, Jameson,” he said at length, “do you 
think this professor fellow is the goods?” 

I didn’t mince matters in my opinion of Ken¬ 
nedy. I told him of the Price case and showed 
him a copy of the telegram. That settled it. 

“Can you bring him down here to-night?” he 
asked quickly. 

I reached for the telephone, found Craig in his 
laboratory finally, and in less than an hour he 
was in the office. 

“This is a most baffling case, Professor Ken¬ 
nedy, this case of Kerr Parker,” said the inspec¬ 
tor, launching at once into his subject. “Here is 
a broker heavily interested in Mexican rubber. 
It looks like a good thing—plantations right in 
the same territory as those of the Rubber Trust. 
Now in addition to that he is branching out into 
coastwise steamship lines; another man associated 
with him is heavily engaged in a railway scheme 
from the United States down into Mexico. Alto¬ 
gether the steamships and railroads are tapping 
rubber, oil, copper, and I don’t know what other 
regions. Here in New York they have been 
pyramiding stocks, borrowing money from two 


THE SILENT BULLET 


9 


trust companies which they control. It’s a lovely 
scheme—you’ve read about it, I suppose. Also 
you’ve read that it comes into competition with a 
certain group of capitalists whom we will call 
‘the System.’ 

“Well, this depression in the market comes 
along. At once rumours are spread about the 
weakness of the trust companies; runs start on 
both of them. The System,—you know them— 
make a great show of supporting the market. Yet 
the runs continue. God knows whether they will 
spread or the trust companies stand up under it 
to-morrow after what happened to-day. It was a 
good thing the market was closed when it hap¬ 
pened. 

“Kerr Parker was surrounded by a group of 
people who were in his schemes with him. They 
are holding a council of war in the directors’ 
room. Suddenly Parker rises, staggers toward 
the window, falls, and is dead before a doctor can 
get to him. Every effort is made to keep the 
thing quiet. It is given out that he committed 
suicide. The papers don’t seem to accept the 
suicide theory, however. Neither do we. The 
coroner, who is working with us, has kept his 
mouth shut so far, and will say nothing till the in¬ 
quest. For, Professor Kennedy, my first man on 
the spot found that—Kerr—Parker—was—mur¬ 
dered. 

“Now here comes the amazing part of the story. 


10 THE SILENT BULLET 

The doors to the offices on both sides were open 
at the time. There were lots of people in each 
office. There was the usual click of typewriters, 
and the buzz of the ticker, and the hum of conver¬ 
sation. We have any number of witnesses of the 
whole affair, but as far as any of them knows no 
shot was fired, no smoke was seen, no noise was 
heard, nor was any weapon found. Yet here on 
my desk is a thirty-two-calibre bullet. The coro¬ 
ner’s physician probed it out of Parker’s neck 
this afternoon and turned it over to us.” 

Kennedy reached for the bullet, and turned it 
thoughtfully in his fingers for a moment. One 
side of it had apparently struck a bone in the neck 
of the murdered man, and was flattened. The 
other side was still perfectly smooth. With his 
inevitable magnifying-glass he scrutinised the 
bullet on every side. I watched his face anx¬ 
iously, and I could see that he was very intent 
and very excited. 

“Extraordinary, most extraordinary,” he said 
to himself as he turned it over and over. 
“Where did you say this bullet struck!” 

“In the fleshy part of the neck, quite a little 
back of and below his ear and just above his 
collar. There wasn’t much bleeding. I think it 
must have struck the base of his brain.” 

“It didn’t strike his collar or hair!” 

“No,” replied the inspector. 

“Inspector, I think we shall be able to put our 


THE SILENT BULLET II 

hands on the murderer—I think we can get a con¬ 
viction, sir, on the evidence that I shall get from 
this bullet in my laboratory.’’ 

“That’s pretty much like a story-book,” 
drawled the inspector incredulously, shaking his 
head. 

“Perhaps,” smiled Kennedy. “But there will 
still be plenty of work for the police to do, too. 
I’ve only got a clue to the murderer. It will tax 
the whole organisation to follow it up, believe me. 
Now, Inspector, can you spare the time to go down 
to Parker’s office and take me over the ground? 
No doubt we can develop something else there.” 

“Sure,” answered O’Connor, and within five 
minutes we were hurrying down town in one of 
the department automobiles. 

We found the office under gfuard of one of the 
Central Office men, while in the outside office 
Parker’s confidential clerk and a few assistants 
were still at work in a subdued and awed manner. 
Men were working in many other Wall Street 
offices that night during the panic, but in none 
was there more reason for it than here. Later 
I learned that it was the quiet tenacity of this 
confidential clerk that saved even as much of 
Parker’s estate as was saved for his widow—• 
little enough it was, too. What he saved for the 
clients of the firm no one will ever know. Some¬ 
how or other I liked John Downey, the clerk, from 
the moment I was introduced to him. He seemed 


12 THE SILENT BULLET 

to me, at least, to be the typical confidential clerk 
who would carry a secret worth millions and 
keep it. 

The officer in charge touched his hat to the in¬ 
spector, and Downey hastened to put himself at 
our service. It was plain that the murder had 
completely mystified him, and that he was as anx¬ 
ious as we were to get at the bottom of it. 

“Mr. Downey,” began Kennedy, “I understand 
you were present when this sad event took place . 9 9 

“Yes, sir, sitting right here at the directors * 
table,” he replied, taking a chair, “like this.” 

“Now can you recollect just how Mr. Parker 
acted when he was shot? Could you—er—could 
you take his place and show us just how it hap¬ 
pened?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Downey. “He was sitting 
here at the head of the table. Mr. Bruce, who is 
the 4 Co. ’ of the firm, had been sitting here at his 
right; I was at the left. The inspector has a list 
of all the others present. That door to the right 
was open, and Mrs. Parker and some other ladies 
were in the room—” 

44 Mrs. Parker?” broke in Kennedy. 

4 4 Yes. Like a good many brokerage firms we 
have a ladies’ room. Many ladies are among our 
clients. We make a point of catering to them. 
At that time I recollect the door was open—all 
the doors were open. It was not a secret meeting. 
Mr. Bruce had just gone into the ladies’ depart- 


13 


THE SILENT BULLET 

ment, I think to ask some of them to stand by the 
firm—he was an artist at smoothing over the 
fears of customers, particularly women. Just be¬ 
fore he went in I had seen the ladies go in a group 
toward the far end of the room—to look down at 
the line of depositors on the street, which reached 
around the corner from one of the trust com¬ 
panies, I thought. I was making a note of an 
order to send into the outside office there an the 
left, and had just pushed this button here under 
the table to call a boy to carry it. Mr. Parker 
had just received a letter by special delivery, and 
seemed considerably puzzled over it. No, I don’t 
know what it was about. Of a sudden I saw him 
start in his chair, rise up unsteadily, clap his hand 
on the back of his head, stagger across the floor—- 
like this—and fall here. ’ ’ 

c ‘ Then what happened ? ’ ’ 

“Why, I rushed to pick him up. Everything 
was confusion. I recall someone behind me say¬ 
ing, 4 Here, boy, take all these papers oft the table 
and carry them into my office before they get lost 
in the excitement.’ I thiuk it was Bruce’s voice. 
The next moment I heard someone say, * Stand 
back, Mrs. Parker has fainted.’ But I didn’t pay 
much attention, for I was calling to someone not 
to get a doctor over the telephone, but to go down 
to the fifth floor where one has an office. I made 
Mr. Parker as comfortable as I could. There 
wasn’t much I could do. He seemed to want to 


14 THE SILENT BULLET 

say something to me, but be couldn’t talk. He 
was paralysed, at least his throat was. But I did 
manage to make out finally what sounded to me 
like, ‘Tell her I don’t believe the scandal, I don’t 
believe it. ’ But before he could say whom to tell 
he had again become unconscious, and by the time 
the doctor arrived he was dead. I guess you 
know everything else as well as I do.” 

“You didn’t hear the shot fired from any par¬ 
ticular direction?” asked Kennedy. 

“No, sir.” 

“Well, where do you think it came from!” 

“That’s what puzzles me, sir. The only thing 
I can figure out is that it was fired from the out¬ 
side office—perhaps by some customer who had 
lost money and sought revenge. But no one out 
there heard it either, any more than they did in 
the directors’ room or the ladies’ department.” 

“About that message,” asked Kennedy, ignor¬ 
ing what to me seemed to be the most important 
feature of the case, the mystery of the silent 
bullet. “Didn’t you see it after all was over?” 

“No, sir; in fact I had forgotten about it till 
this moment when you asked me to reconstruct 
the circumstances exactly. No, sir, I don’t know 
a thing about it. I can’t say it impressed itself 
on my mind at the time, either.” 

“What did Mrs. Parker do when she came to?” 

“Oh, she cried as I have never seen a woman 
cry before. He was dead by that time, of course. 


THE SILENT BULLET 15 

Mr. Bruce and I saw her down in the elevator to 
her car. In fact, the doctor, who had arrived, 
said that the sooner she was taken home the bet¬ 
ter she would be. She was quite hysterical.” 
f “Bid she say anything that you remember?” 

Downey hesitated. 

“Out with it, Downey,’’ said the inspector. 
“What did she say as she was going down in the 
elevator ? ’ ’ 

“Nothing.” 

“Tell us. I’ll arrest you if you don’t.” 

“Nothing about the murder, on my honour,” 
protested Downey. 

Kennedy leaned over suddenly and shot a re¬ 
mark at him, ‘ 4 Then it was about the note. ’ ’ 

Downey was surprised, but not quickly enough. 

' Still he seemed to be considering something, and 
in a moment he said: 

“I don’t know what it was about, but I feel it 
is my duty, after all, to tell you. I heard her say, 
‘I wonder if he knew.’ ” 

“Nothing else?” 

“Nothing else.” 

“What happened after you came back?” 

“We entered the ladies’ department. No one 
was there. A woman’s automobile-coat was 
thrown over a chair in a heap. Mr. Bruce picked 
it up. ‘It’s Mrs. Parker’s,’ he said. He 
wrapped it up hastily, and rang for a messenger . if 

“Where did he send it?” 


16 


THE SILENT BULLET 

“To Mrs. Parker, I suppose. I didn’t hear the 
address.” 

We next went over the whole suite of offices, 
conducted by Mr. Downey. I noted how care¬ 
fully Kennedy looked into the directors’ room 
through the open door from the ladies’ depart¬ 
ment. He stood at such an angle that had he been 
the assassin he could scarcely have been seen ex¬ 
cept by those sitting immediately next Mr. Parker 
at the directors’ table. The street windows were 
directly in front of him, and back of him was thei 
chair on which the motor-coat had been found. 

In Parker’s own office we spent some time, as 
well as in Bruce’s. Kennedy made a search for 
the note, but finding nothing in either office, 
turned out the contents of Bruce’s scrap-basket. 
There didn’t seem to be anything in it to interest 
him, however, even after he had pieced several 
torn bits of scraps together with much difficulty, 
and he was about to turn the papers back again, 
when he noticed something sticking to the side of 
the basket. It looked like a mass of wet paper, 
and that was precisely what it was. 

“That’s queer,” said Kennedy, picking it loose. 
Then he wrapped it up carefully and put it in his 
pocket. “Inspector, can you lend me one of your 
men for a couple of days?” he asked, as we were 
preparing to leave. “I shall want to send him 
out of town to-night, and shall probably need his 
services when he gets back.” 


17 


THE SILENT BULLET 

“Very well. Riley will be just the fellow. 
We’ll go back to headquarters, and I’ll put him 
under your orders. ’ ’ 

It was not until late in the following day that 
I saw Kennedy again. It had been a busy day 
on the Star. We had gone to work that morning 
expecting to see the very financial heavens fall. 
But just about five minutes to ten, before the 
Stock Exchange opened, the news came in over 
the wire from our financial man on Broad Street: 
“The System has forced James Bruce, partner 
of Kerr Parker, the dead banker, to sell his rail¬ 
road, steamship, and rubber holdings to it. On 
this condition it promises unlimited support to 
the market. ’’ 

“Forced!” muttered the managing editor, as 
he waited on the office ’phone to get the compos¬ 
ing-room, so as to hurry up the few lines in red 
ink on the first page and beat our rivals on the 
streets with the first extras. “Why, he’s been 
working to bring that about for the past two 
weeks. What that System doesn’t control isn’t 
worth having—it edits the news before our men 
get it, and as for grist for the divorce courts, and 
tragedies, well—Hello, Jenkins, yes, a special ex¬ 
tra. Change the big heads—copy is on the way 
up—rush it.” 

“So you think this Parker case is a mess?” I 
asked. 

“I know it. That’s a pretty swift bunch of fe- 


18 THE SILENT BULLET 

males that have been speculating at Kerr Parker 
& Co.’s. I understand there’s one Titian-haired 
young lady—who, by the way, has at least one 
husband who hasn’t yet been divorced—who is a 
sort of ringleader, though she rarely goes person¬ 
ally to her brokers’ offices. She’s one of those 
uptown plungers, and the story is that she has a 
whole string of scalps of alleged Sunday-school 
superintendents at her belt. She can make Bruce 
do pretty nearly anything, they say.’ He’s the 
latest conquest. I got the story on pretty good 
authority, but until I verified the names, dates, 
and places, of course I wouldn’t dare print a line 
of it. The story goes that her husband is a 
hanger-on of the System, and that she’s been 
working in their interest, too. That was why he 
was so complacent over the whole affair. They 
put her up to capturing Bruce, and after she had 
acquired an influence over him they worked it so 
that she made him make love to Mrs. Parker. 
It’s a long story, but that isn’t all of it. The 
point was, you see, that by this devious route they 
hoped to worm out of Mrs. Parker some inside in¬ 
formation about Parker’s rubber schemes, which 
he hadn’t divulged even to his partners in busi¬ 
ness. It was a deep and carefully planned plot, 
and some of the conspirators were prettv deeply 
in the mire, I guess. I wish I’d had all the facts 
about who this red-haired female Machiavelli was 
—what a piece of muckraking it would have made! 


THE SILENT BULLET 19 

Oh, here comes the rest of the news story over the 
wire. By Jove, it is said on good authority that 
Bruce will he taken in as one of the board of di¬ 
rectors. What do you think of that?” 

So that was how the wind lay—Bruce making 
love to Mrs. Parker and she presumably betraying 
her husband’s secrets. I thought I saw it all: the 
note from somebody exposing the scheme, Park¬ 
er’s incredulity, Bruce sitting by him and catch¬ 
ing sight of the note, his hurrying out into the 
ladies’ department, and then the shot. But who 
fired it t After all, I had only picked up another 
clue. 

Kennedy was not at the apartment at dinner, 
and an inquiry at the laboratory was fruitless 
also. So I sat down to fidget for a while. 
Pretty soon the buzzer on the door sounded, and 
I opened it to find a messenger-boy with a large 
brown paper parcel. 

“Is Mr. Bruce here?” he asked. 

“Why, no, he doesn’t—” then I checked my¬ 
self and added: “He will be here presently. You 
can leave the bundle.” 

“Well, this is the parcel he telephoned for. 
His valet told me to tell him that they had a hard 
time to find it, but he guesses it’s all right. The 
charges are forty cents. Sign here.” 

I signed the book, feeling like a thief, and the 
boy departed. What it all meant I could not 
guess. 


20 


THE SILENT BULLET 

Just then I heard a key in the lock, and Ken¬ 
nedy came in. 

“Is your name Bruce?” I asked. 

“Why?” he replied eagerly. “Has anything 
come?” 

I pointed to the package. Kennedy made a 
dive for it and unwrapped it. It was a woman’s 
pongee automobile-coat. He held it up to the 
light. The pocket on the right-hand side was 
scorched and burned, and a hole was torn clean 
through it. I gasped when the full significance 
of it dawned on me. 

“How did you get it?” I exclaimed at last in 
surprise. 

“That’s where organisation comes in,” said 
Kennedy. “The police at my request went over 
every messenger call from Parker’s office that 
afternoon, and traced every one of them up. At 
last they found one that led to Bruce’s apart¬ 
ment. None of them led to Mrs. Parker’s home. 
The rest were all business calls and satisfactorily 
accounted for. I reasoned that this was the one 
that involved the disappearance of the automobile- 
coat. It was a chance worth taking, so I got 
Downey to call up Bruce’s valet. The valet of 
course recognised Downey’s voice and suspected 
nothing. Downey assumed to know all about the 
coat in the package received yesterday. He 
asked to have it sent up here. I see the scheme 
worked.” 


THE SILENT BULLET 21 

“But, Kennedy, do you think she—” I stopped, 
speechless, looking at the scorched coat. 

“Nothing to say—yet,” he replied laconically., 
“But if you could tell me anything about that note 
Barker received I’d thank you.” 

I related what our managing editor had said 
that morning. Kennedy only raised his eyebrows 
a fraction of an inch. 

“I had guessed something of that sort,” he said 
merely. “I’m glad to find it confirmed even by 
hearsay evidence. This red-haired young lady 
interests me. Not a very definite description, but 
better than nothing at all. I wonder who she is. 
'Ah, well, what do you say to a stroll down the 
White Way before I go to my laboratory? I’d 
like a breath of air to relax my mind.” 

We had got no further than the first theatre 
when Kennedy slapped me on the back. “By 
George, Jameson, she’s an actress, of course. 95 

“Who is? What’s the matter with you, Ken¬ 
nedy ? Are you crazy ? ’ ’ 

“The red-haired person—she must be an ac¬ 
tress. Don’t you remember the auburn-haired 
leading lady in the ‘Follies’—the girl who sings 
that song about ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary’? 
Her stage name, you know, is Phoebe La Neige. 
Well, if it’s she who is concerned in this case I 
don’t think she’ll be playing to-night. Let’s in¬ 
quire at the box-office.” 

She wasn’t playing, but just what it had to do 


22 THE SILENT BULLET 

with anything in particular I couldn’t see, and I 
said as much. 

“Why, Walter, you’d never do as a detective. 
You lack intuition. Sometimes I think I haven’t 
quite enough of it, either. Why didn’t I think of 
that sooner? Don’t you know she is the wife of 
Adolphus Hesse, the most inveterate gambler in 
stocks in the System? Why, I had only to put 
two and two together and the whole thing flashed 
on me in an instant. Isn’t it a good hypothesis 
that she is the red-haired woman in the case, the 
tool of the System in which her husband is so 
heavily involved? I’ll have to add her to my list 
of suspects.” 

“Why, you don’t think she did the shooting?” 
I asked, half hoping, I must admit, for an assent¬ 
ing nod from him. 

“Well,” he answered dryly, “one shouldn’t let 
any preconceived hypothesis stand between him 
and the truth. I’ve made a guess at the whole 
thing already. It may or it may not be right. 
Anyhow she will fit into it. And if it’s not right, 
I’ve got to be prepared to make a new guess, 
that’s all.” 

When we reached the laboratory on our return, 
the inspector’s man Eiley was there, waiting im¬ 
patiently for Kennedy. 

“What luck?” asked Kennedy. 

“I’ve got a list of purchasers of that kind of 
revolver,” he said. “We have been to every 


23 


THE SILENT BULLET 

sporting-goods and arms-store in the city which 
bought them from the factory, and I could lay my 
hands on pretty nearly every one of those weap¬ 
ons in twenty-four hours—provided, of course, 
they haven’t been secreted or destroyed.” 

i ‘Pretty nearly all isn’t good enough,” said. 
Kennedy. “It will have to be all, unless—” 

6 ‘That name is in the list,” whispered Riley 
hoarsely. 

“Oh, then it’s all right,” answered Kennedy, 
brightening up. “Riley, I will say that you’re 
a wonder at using the organisation in ferreting 
out such things. There’s just one more thing I 
want you to do. I want a sample of the note- 
paper in the private desks of every one of these 
people.”. He handed the policeman a list of his 
‘ ‘ suspects, ” as he called them. It included nearly 
every one mentioned in the case. 

Riley studied it dubiously and scratched his' 
chin thoughtfully. “That’s a hard one, Mr. Ken¬ 
nedy, sir. You see, it means getting into so many 
different houses and apartments. Now you don’t 
want to do it by means of a warrant, do you, sir? 
Of course not. Well, then, how can we get in?” 

“You’re a pretty good-looking chap yourself, 
Riley,” said Kennedy. “I should think you could 
jolly a housemaid, if necessary. Anyhow, you can 
get the fellow on the beat to do it—if he isn’t al¬ 
ready to be found in the kitchen. Why, I see a 
dozen ways of getting the notepaper.” 


24 


THE SILENT BULLET 

“Oh, it’s me that’s the lady-killer, sir,” grinned 
Riley. “I’m a regular Blarney stone when I’m 
out on a job of that sort. Sure, I’ll have some of 
them for you in the morning.” 

“Bring me what you get, the first thing in the 
morning, even if you’ve landed only a few sam¬ 
ples,” said Kennedy, as Riley departed, straight¬ 
ening his tie and brushing his hat on his sleeve. 

“And now, Walter, you too must excuse me to¬ 
night,” said Craig. “I’ve got a lot to do, and 
sha’n’t be up to our apartment till very late—or 
early. But I feel sure I’ve got a strangle-hold on 
this mystery. If I get those papers from Riley 
in good time to-morrow I shall invite you and sev¬ 
eral others to a grand demonstration here to¬ 
morrow night. Don’t forget. Keep the whole 
evening free. It will be a big story.” 

Kennedy’s laboratory was brightly lighted 
when I arrived early the next evening. One by 
one his “guests” dropped in. It was evident that 
they had little liking for the visit, but the coroner 
had sent out the “invitations,” and they had 
nothing to do but accept. Each one was politely 
welcomed by the professor and assigned a seat, 
much as he would have done with a group of stu¬ 
dents. The inspector and the coroner sat back 
a little. Mrs. Parker, Mr. Downey, Mr. Bruce, 
myself, and Miss La Neige sat in that order in the 
very narrow and uncomfortable little armchairs 
used by the students during lectures. 


THE SILENT BULLET 25 

At last Kennedy was ready to begin. He took 
bis position behind the long, flat-topped table 
which he used for his demonstrations before his 
classes. “I realise, ladies and gentlemen,’’ he be¬ 
gan formally, “that I am about to do a very un¬ 
usual thing; but, as you all know, the police and 
the coroner have been completely baffled by this 
terrible mystery and have requested me to at¬ 
tempt to clear up at least certain points in it. I 
will begin what I have to say by remarking . 
the tracing out of a crime like this differs in 
ing, except as regards the subject-mattey 
the search for a scientific truth. The fo? 
man’s secrets is like the forcing of nat 7 
erets. Both are pieces of detective work. The 
methods employed in the detection of crime are, 
or rather should be, like the methods employed 
in the process of discovering scientific truth. In 
a crime of this sort, two kinds of evidence need 
to be secured. Circumstantial evidence must first 
be marshalled, and then a motive must be found. 
I have been gathering facts. But to omit motives 
and rest contented with mere facts would be in¬ 
conclusive. It would never convince anybody or 
convict anybody. In other words, circumstantial 
evidence must first lead to a suspect, and then this 
susnect must prove equal to accounting for the 
facts. It is my hope that each of you may con¬ 
tribute something that will be of service in ar¬ 
riving at the truth of this unfortunate incident.” 


26 THE SILENT BULLET 

The tension was not relieved even when Ken¬ 
nedy stopped speaking and began to fuss with a 
little upright target which he set up at one end of 
his table. We seemed to be seated over a powder- 
magazine which threatened to explode at any mo- 
/ment. *1, at least, felt the tension so greatly that 
it was only after he had started speaking again 
that I noticed that the target was composed of a 
thick layer of some putty-like material. 

Holding a thirty-two-calibre pistol in his right 
hand and aiming it at the target, Kennedy picked 
up a large piece of coarse homespun from the 
table and held it loosely over the muzzle of the 
gun. Then he tired. The bullet tore through the 
cloth, sped through the air, and buried itself in the 
target. With a knife he pried it out. 

“I doubt if even the inspector himself could 
have told us that when an ordinary leaden bullet 
is shot through a woven fabric the weave of that 
fabric is in the majority of cases impressed on the 
bullet, sometimes clearly, sometimes faintly.” 

Here Kennedy took up a piece of fine batiste 
and fired another bullet through it. 

“Every leaden bullet, as I have said, which has 
struck such a fabric bears an impression of the 
threads which is recognisable even when the bullet 
has penetrated deeply into the body. It is only 
obliterated partially or entirely when the bullet 
has been flattened by striking a bone or other hard 
object. Even then, as in this case, if only a part 


THE SILENT BULLET 27 

of the bullet is flattened the remainder may still 
show the marks of the fabric. A heavy warp, say 
of cotton velvet or, as I have here, homespun, will 
he imprinted well on the bullet, but even a fine 
batiste, containing one hundred threads to the 
inch, will show marks. Even layers of goods such 
as a coat, shirt, and undershirt may each leave 
their marks, but that does not concern us in this 
case. Now I have here a piece of pongee silk, 
cut from a woman’s automobile-coat. I dis¬ 
charge the bullet through it—so. I compare the 
bullet now with the others and with the one 
probed from the neck of Mr. Parker. I find that 
the marks on that fatal bullet correspond pre¬ 
cisely with those on the bullet fired through the 
pongee coat.” 

Startling as was this revelation, Kennedy 
paused only an instant before the next. 

4 ‘Now I have another demonstration. A cer¬ 
tain note figures in this case. Mr. Parker was 
reading it, or perhaps re-reading it, at the time 
he was shot. I have not been able to obtain that 
note—at least not in a form such as I could use 
in discovering what were its contents. But in a 
certain wastebasket I found a mass of wet and 
pulp-like paper. It had been cut up, macerated, 
perhaps chewed; perhaps it had been also soaked 
with water. There was a washbasin with running 
water in this room. The ink had run, and of 
course was illegible. The thing was so unusual 


28 THE SILENT BULLET 

that I at once assumed that this was the remains 
of the note in question. Under ordinary circum¬ 
stances it would be utterly valueless as a clue to 
anything. But to-day science is not ready to let 
anything pass as valueless. 

“X found on microscopic examination that it 
was an uncommon linen bond paper, and I have 
taken a large number of microphotographs of the 
fibres in it. They are all similar. I have here 
also about a hundred microphotographs of the 
fibres in other kinds of paper, many of them 
bonds. These I have accumulated from time to 
time in my study of the subject. None of them, 
as you can see, shows fibres resembling this one 
in question, so we may conclude that it is of un¬ 
common quality. Through an agent of the police 
I have secured samples of the notepaper of 
every one who could be concerned, as far as I 
could see, with this case. Here are the photo¬ 
graphs of the fibres of these various notepapers, 
and among them all is just one that corresponds 
to the fibres in the wet mass of paper I discov¬ 
ered in the scrap-basket. Now lest anyone should 
question the accuracy of this method I might cite 
a case where a man had been arrested in Germany 
charged with stealing a government bond. 
He was not searched till later. There was 
no evidence save that after the arrest a large 
number of spitballs were found around the court¬ 
yard under his cell window. This method of com- 


THE SILENT BULLET 29 

paring the fibres with those of the regular govern¬ 
ment paper was used, and by it the man was con¬ 
victed of stealing the bond. I think it is almost 
unnecessary to add that in the present case we 
know precisely who—-” 

At this point the tension was so great that it 1 
snapped. Miss La Neige, who was sitting beside 
me, had been leaning forward involuntarily. Al¬ 
most as if the words were wrung from her she 
whispered hoarsely: “They put me up to doing 
it; I didn’t want to. But the affair had gone too 
far. I couldn’t see him lost before my very eyes. 
I didn’t want her to get him. The quickest way 
out was to tell the whole story to Mr. Parker and 
stop it. It was the only way I could think of to 
stop this thing between another man’s wife and 
the man I loved better than my own husband. 
God knows, Professor Kennedy, that was all—” 

“Calm yourself, madame,” interrupted Ken¬ 
nedy soothingly. “Calm yourself. What’s done 
is done. The truth must come out. Be calm. 
Now,” he continued, after the first storm of re¬ 
morse had spent itself and we were all outwardly 
composed again, “we have said nothing whatever 
of the most mysterious feature of the case, the 
firing of the shot. The murderer could have 
thrust the weapon into the pocket or the folds of 
this coat”—here he drew forth the automobile! 
coat and held it aloft, displaying the bullet hole— 
“and he or she (I will not say which) could have 


30 


THE SILENT BULLET 


discharged the pistol unseen. By removing and 
secreting the weapon afterward one very impor¬ 
tant piece of evidence would be suppressed. 
This person could have used such a cartridge as 
I have here, made with smokeless powder, and the 
coat would have concealed the flash of the shot 
very effectively. There would have been no 
smoke. But neither this coat nor even a heavy 
blanket would have deadened the report of the 
shot. . 

“What are we to think of that? Only one 
thing. I have often wondered why the thing 
wasn’t done before. In fact I have been waiting 
for it to occur. There is an invention that makes 
it almost possible to strike a man down with im¬ 
punity in broad daylight in any place where there 
is sufficient noise to cover up a click, a slight 
"Pouf!’ and the whir of the bullet in the air. 

“I refer to this little device of a Hartford in¬ 
ventor. I place it over the muzzle of the thirty- 
two-calibre revolver I have so far been using—so. 
Now, Mr. Jameson, if you will sit at that type¬ 
writer over there and write—anything so long as 
you keep the keys clicking. The inspector will 
start that imitation stock-ticker in the corner. 
Now we are ready. I cover the pistol with a 
doth. I defy anyone in this room to tell me the 
exact moment when I discharged the pistol. I 
could have shot any of you, and an outsider not 
in the secret would never have thought that I was 


THE SILENT BULLET 31 

the culprit. To a certain extent I have repro¬ 
duced the conditions under which this shooting 
occurred. 

“At once on being sure of this feature of the 
case I despatched a man to Hartford to see this v 
inventor. The man obtained from him a com¬ 
plete list of all the dealers in New York to whom 
such devices had been sold. The man also traced 
every sale of those dealers. He did not actually 
obtain the weapon, but if he is working on sched¬ 
ule-time according to agreement he is at this mo¬ 
ment armed with a search-warrant and is ran¬ 
sacking every possible place where the person 
suspected of this crime could have concealed his 
weapon. For, one of the persons intimately con¬ 
nected with this case purchased not long ago a 
silencer for a thirty-two-calibre revolver, and I 
presume that that person carried the gun and the 
silencer at the time of the murder of Kerr 
Parker.’ * 

Kennedy concluded in triumph, his voice high 
pitched, his eyes flashing. Yet to all outward ap¬ 
pearance not a heart-beat was quickened. Some¬ 
one in that room had an amazing store of self- 
possession. The fear flitted across my mind that 
even at the last Kennedy was baffled. 

“I had anticipated some such anti-climax,” he 
continued after a moment. “I am prepared for 
it.” 

He touched a bell, and the door to the next room. 


32 THE SILENT BULLET 

opened. One of Kennedy’s graduate students 
stepped in. 

“You have the records, Whiting?” he asked* 

“Yes, Professor.” 

“I may say,” said Kennedy, “that each of your 
chairs is wired under the arm in such a way as to 
betray on an appropriate indicator in the next 
room every sudden and undue emotion. Though 
it may be concealed from the eye, even of one like 
me who stands facing you, such emotion is never¬ 
theless expressed by physical pressure on the 
arms of the chair. It is a test that is used fre¬ 
quently with students to demonstrate various 
points of psychology. You needn’t raise your 
arms from the chairs, ladies and gentlemen. The 
tests are all over now. What did they show, 
Whiting ? ’ ’ 

The student read what he had been noting in 
the next room. At the production of the coat 
during the demonstration of the markings of the 
bullet, Mrs. Parker had betrayed great emotion, 
Mr. Bruce had done likewise, and nothing more 
than ordinary emotion had been noted for the 
rest of us. Miss La Neige’s automatic record 
during the tracing out of the sending of the note 
to Parker had been especially unfavourable to 
her; Mr. Bruce showed almost as much excite¬ 
ment; Mrs. Parker very little and Downey very 
little. It was all set forth in curves drawn by 
self-recording pens on regular ruled paper. The 


THE SILENT BULLET 33 

student liad merely noted wliat took place in the 
lecture-room as corresponding to these curves. 

“At the mention of the noiseless gun,” said 
Kennedy, bending over the record, while the stu¬ 
dent pointed it out to him and we leaned forward 
to catch his words, “I find that the curves of Miss 
La Neige, Mrs. Parker, and Mr. Downey are only 
so far from normal as would he natural. All of 
them were witnessing a thing for the first time 
with only curiosity and no fear. The curve made 
by Mr. Bruce shows great agitation and—” 

I heard a metallic click at my side and turned 
hastily. It was Inspector Barney 0 ’Connor, who 
had stepped out of the shadow with a pair of 
hand-cuffs. 

“James Bruce, you are under arrest,” he said. 

There flashed on my mind, and I think on the 
minds of some of the others, a picture of another 
electrically wired chair. 


II 


THE SCIENTIFIC CRACKSMAN 

“I’m willing to wager you a box of cigars that 
you don’t know the most fascinating story in 
your own paper to-night,” remarked Kennedy, 
as I came in one evening with the four or five 
newspapers I was in the habit of reading to see 
whether they had beaten the Star in getting any 
news of importance. 

“I’ll bet I do,” I said, “for I was one of about 
a dozen who worked it up. It’s the Shaw murder 
trial. There isn’t another that’s even a bad sec¬ 
ond. ’ ’ 

“I am afraid the cigars will be on you, Walter. 
Crowded over on the second page by a lot of stale 
sensation that everyone has read for the fiftieth 
time, now, you will find what promises to be a 
real sensation, a curious half-column account of 
the sudden death of John G. Fletcher.” 

I laughed. “Craig,” I said, “when you put 
up a simple death from apoplexy against a mur¬ 
der trial, and such a murder trial,—well, you dis¬ 
appoint me—that’s all.” 

“Is it a simple case of apoplexy*?” he asked, 
pacing up and down the room, while I wondered 

34 


THE SCIENTIFIC CRACKSMAN 35 

why he should grow excited over what seemed a 
very ordinary news item, after all. Then he 
picked np the paper and read the account slowly 
aloud. 

JOHN G. FLETCHER, STEEL MAGNATE, 
DIES SUDDENLY 

SAFE OPEN BUT LARGE SUM OF CASH UNTOUCHED 

John Graham Fletcher, the aged philanthropist and 
steelmaker, was found dead in his library this morning 
at his home at Fletcherwood, Great Neck, Long Island. 
Strangely, the safe in the library in which he kept his 
papers and a large sum of cash was found opened, but 
as far as could be learned nothing is missing. 

It had always been Mr. Fletcher’s custom to rise at 
seven o’clock. This morning his housekeeper became 
alarmed when he had not appeared by nine o’clock. 
Listening at the door, she heard no sound. It was not 
locked, and on entering she found the former steel-mag¬ 
nate lying lifeless on the floor between his bedroom and 
the library adjoining. His personal physician, Dr. 
W. C. Bryant, was immediately notified. 

Close examination of the body revealed that his face 
was slightly discoloured, and the cause of death was 
given by the physician as apoplexy. He had evidently 
been dead about eight or nine hours when discovered, 

Mr. Fletcher is survived by a nephew, John G„ 
Fletcher, II., who is the Blake professor of bacteriology 
at the University, and by a grandniece, Miss Helen 
Bond. Professor Fletcher was informed of the sad oc¬ 
currence shortly after leaving a class this morning and 


36 


THE SILENT BULLET 

hurried out to Fletcherwood. He would make no state¬ 
ment other than that he was inexpressibly shocked. Miss 
Bond, who has for several years resided with relatives, 
Mr. and Mrs. Francis Greene of Little Neck, is prostrated 
by the shock. 

“Walter,’’ added Kennedy, as he laid down the 
paper and, without any more sparring, came di¬ 
rectly to the point, “ there was something missing 
from that safe.” 

I had no need to express the interest I now 
really felt, and Kennedy hastened to take ad¬ 
vantage of it. 

“Just before you came in,” he continued, 
“Jack Fletcher called me up from Great Neck. 
You probably don’t know it, but it has been priv¬ 
ately reported in the inner circle of the Univer¬ 
sity that old Fletcher was to leave the hulk of his 
fortune to found a great school of preventive 
medicine, and that the only proviso was that his 
nephew should he dean of the school. The pro¬ 
fessor told me over the wire that the will was 
missing from the safe, and that it was the only 
thing missing. From his excitement I judge 
that there is more to the story than he cared to 
tell over the ’phone. He said his car was on the 
way to the city, and he asked if I wouldn’t come 
and help him—he wouldn’t say how. Now, 1 
know him pretty well, and I’m going to ask you 
to come along, Walter, for the express purpose 
of keeping this thing out of the newspapers— 


THE SCIENTIFIC CBACKSMAN 37 

understand?—until we get to the bottom of it.” 

A few minutes later the telephone rang and the 
hall-hoy announced that the car was waiting. 
We hurried down to it; the chauffeur lounged 
down carelessly into his seat and we were off 
across the city and river and out on the road to 
Great Neck with amazing speed. 

Already I began to feel something of Ken¬ 
nedy’s zest for the adventure. I found myself 
half a dozen times on the point of hazarding a 
suspicion, only to relapse again into silence at 
the inscrutable look on Kennedy’s face. What 
was the mystery that awaited us in the great 
lonely house on Long Island? * 

We found Fletcherwood a splendid estate di¬ 
rectly on the bay, with a long drive-way leading 
up to the door. Professor Fletcher met us at 
the porte cochere, and I was glad to note that, 
far from taking me as an intruder, he seemed 
rather relieved that someone who understood the 
ways of the newspapers could stand between him 
and any reporters who might possibly drop in. 

He ushered us directly into the library and 
closed the door. It seemed as if he could scarcely 
wait to tell his story. 

“Kennedy,” he began, almost trembling with 
excitement, “look at that safe door.” 

We looked. It had been drilled through in such 
a way as to break the combination. It was a 
heavy door, closely fitting, and it was the best 


38 


THE SILENT BULLET 


kind of small safe that the state of the art had 
produced. Yet clearly it had been tampered with, 
and successfully. Who was this scientific cracks¬ 
man who had apparently accomplished the im¬ 
possible! It was no ordinary hand and brain 
which had executed this “job.” 

Fletcher swung the door wide, and pointed to 
a little compartment inside, whose steel door had 
been jimmied open. Then out of it he carefully 
lifted a steel box and deposited it on the library 
table. 

“I suppose everybody has been handling that 
box!” asked Craig quickly. 

A smile flitted across Fletcher’s features. “I 
thought of that, Kennedy,” he said. “I remem¬ 
bered what you once told me about finger-prints. 
Only myself has touched it, and I was careful to 
take hold of it only on the sides. The will was 
placed in this box, and the key to the box was 
usually in the lock. Well, the will is gone. 
That’s all; nothing else was touched. But for the 
life of me I can’t find a mark on the box, not a 
finger-mark. Now on a hot and humid summer 
night like last night I should say it was pretty 
likely that anyone touching this metal box would 
have left finger-marks. Shouldn’t you think so, 
Kennedy! ’ ’ 

Kennedy nodded and continued to examine the 
place where the compartment had been jimmied. 
A low whistle aroused us. Coming over to the 


THE SCIENTIFIC CBACKSMAN 39 


table, Craig tore a white sheet of paper off a pad 
lying there and deposited a couple of small par¬ 
ticles on it. 

“I fonnd them sticking on the jagged edges of 
the steel where it had been forced,’’ he saidr 
Then he whipped ont a pocket magnifying-glass. 
“Not from a rubber glove,” he commented half 
to himself. “By Jove, one side of them shows- 
lines that look as if they were the lines on a per¬ 
son’s fingers, and the other side is perfectly 
smooth. There’s not a chance of nsing them as 
a clue, except—well, I didn’t know criminals in 
America knew that stunt.” 

“What stunt?” 

“Why, you know how keen the new detectives 
are on the finger-print system? Well, the first 
thing some of the up-to-date criminals in Europe 
did was to wear rubber gloves so that they would 
leave no prints. But you can’t work very well 
with rubber gloves. Last fall in Paris I heard 
of a fellow who had given the police a lot of 
trouble. He never left a mark, or at least it was 
no good if he did. He painted his hands lightly 
with a liquid rubber which he had invented him¬ 
self. It did all that rubber gloves would do and 
yet left him the free use of his fingers with prac¬ 
tically the same keenness of touch. Fletcher, 
whatever is at the bottom of this affair, I feel 
sure right now that you have to deal with no or¬ 
dinary criminal.” 


40 THE SILENT BULLET 

“Do you suppose there are any relatives be¬ 
sides those we know of?” I asked Kennedy when 
Fletcher had left to summon the servants. 

“No,” he replied, “I think not. Fletcher and 
Helen Bond, his second cousin, to whom he is en¬ 
gaged, are the only two.” 

Kennedy continued to study the library. He 
walked in and out of the doors and examined the 
windows and viewed the safe from all angles. 
“The old gentleman’s bedroom is here,” he said, 
indicating a door. “Now a good smart noise or 
perhaps even a light shining through the transom 
from the library might arouse him. Suppose he 
woke up suddenly and entered by this door. He 
would see the thief at work on the safe. Yes, 
that part of reconstructing the story is simple. 
But who was the intruder 1 ” 

Just then Fletcher returned with the servants. 
The Questioning was long and tedious, and devel¬ 
oped nothing except that the butler admitted that 
he was uncertain whether the windows in the li¬ 
brary were locked. The gardener was very ob¬ 
tuse, but finally contributed one possibly impor¬ 
tant fact. He had noted in the morning that the 
back gate, leading into a disused road closer to 
the bay than the main highway in front of the 
house, was open. It was rarely used, and was 
kept closed only by an ordinary hook. Whoever 
had opened it had evidently forgotten to hook it. 
He had thought it strange that it was unhooked, 


THE SCIENTIFIC CRACKSMAN 41 

and in closing it he had noticed in the mnd of the 
roadway marks that seemed to indicate that an 
automobile had stood there. 

After the servants had gone, Fletcher asked 
us to excuse him for a while, as he wished to run 
over to the Greenes’, who lived across the bay. 
Miss Bond was completely prostrated by the 
death of her uncle, he said, and was in an ex¬ 
tremely nervous condition. Meanwhile if we 
found any need of a machine we might use his 
uncle’s, or in fact anything around the place. 

“Walter,” said Craig, when Fletcher had gone, 
“I want to run back to town to-night, and I have 
something I’d like to have you do, too.” 

We were soon speeding back along the splen¬ 
did road to Long Island City, while he laid out 
our programme. 

“You go down to the Star office,” he said, “and 
look through all the clippings on the whole 
Fletcher family. Get a complete story of the life 
of Helen Bond, too—what she has done in society, 
with whom she has been seen mostly, whether 
she has made any trips abroad, and whether she 
has ever been engaged—you know, anything likely 
to be significant. I’m going up to the apartment 
to get my camera and then to the laboratory to get 
some rather bulky paraphernalia I want to take 
out to Fletcherwood. Meet me at the Columbus 
Circle station at, say half-past-ten.” 

So we separated. My search revealed the fact 


42 THE SILENT BULLET 

that Miss Bond had always been intimate with 
the nltra-fashionable set, had spent last summer 
in Europe, a good part of the time in Switzerland 
and Paris with the Greenes. As far as I could 
find out she had never been reported engaged, 
but plenty of fortunes as well as foreign titles 
had been flitting about the ward of the steel- 
magnate. 

Craig and I met at the appointed time. He 
had a lot of paraphernalia with him, and it did 
not add to our comfort as we sped back, but it 
wasn’t much over half an hour before we again 
found ourselves nearing Great Neck. 

Instead of going directly back to Fletcherwood, 
however, Craig had told the chauffeur to stop at 
the plant of the local electric light and power 
company, where he asked if he might see the rec¬ 
ord of the amount of current used the night be¬ 
fore. 

The curve sprawled across the ruled surface 
of the sheet by the automatic registering-needle 
was irregular, showing the ups and downs of the 
current, rising sharply from sundown and grad¬ 
ually declining after nine o’clock, as the lights 
went out. Somewhere between eleven and twelve 
o’clock, however, the irregular fall of the 
curve was broken by a quite noticeable upward 
twist. 

Craig asked the men if that usually happened. 
They were quite sure that the curve as a rule 


THE SCIENTIFIC CRACKSMAN 43 

went gradually down until twelve o’clock, when 
the power was shut off. But they did not see 
anything remarkable in it. “Oh, I suppose some 
of the big houses had guests,” volunteered the 
foreman, “and just to show off the place per- 
1 haps they turned on all the lights. I don’t know, 
sir, what it was, but it couldn’t have been a heavy 
drain, or we would have noticed it at the time, 
and the lights would all have been dim.” 

“Well,” said Craig, “just watch and see if it 
occurs again to-night about the same time.” 

“All right, sir.” 

“And when you close down the plant for the 
night, will you bring the record card up to 
Fletcherwood ? ” asked Craig, slipping a bill into 
the pocket of the foreman’s shirt. 

“I will, and thank you, sir.” 

It was nearly half-past eleven when Craig had 
got his apparatus set up in the library at Fletcher¬ 
wood. Then he unscrewed all the bulbs from 
the chandelier in the library and attached in their 
places connections with the usual green silk-cov¬ 
ered flexible wire rope. These were then joined 
up to a little instrument which to me looked like 
a drill. Next he muffled the drill with a wad of 
felt and applied it to the safe door. 

I could hear the dull tat-tat of the drill. Going 
into the bedroom and closing the door, I found 
that it was still audible to me, but an old man, 
inclined to deafness and asleep, would scarcely 


44 THE SILENT BULLET 

have been awakened by it. In about ten minutes 
Craig displayed a neat little bole in the safe door 
opposite the one made by the cracksman in the 
combination. 

“I’m glad you’re honest,” I said, “or else we 
might be afraid of you—perhaps even make yon 
prove an alibi for last night’s job!” 

He ignored my bantering and said in a tone 
such as he might have used before a class of stu¬ 
dents in the gentle art of scientific safe-cracking: 
“Now if the power company’s curve is just the 
same to-night as last night, that will show how 
the thing was done. I wanted to be sure of it, 
so I thought I’d try this apparatus which I smug¬ 
gled in from Paris last year. I believe the old 
man happened to be wakeful and heard it.” 

Then he pried off the door of the interior com¬ 
partment which had been jimmied open. “Per¬ 
haps we may learn something by looking at this 
door and studying the marks left by the jimmy, 
by means of this new instrument of mine,” he 
said. 

On the library table he fastened an arrange¬ 
ment with two upright posts supporting a dial 
which he called a “dynamometer.” The up¬ 
rights were braced in the back, and the whole 
thing reminded me of a miniature guillotine. 

“This is my mechanical detective,” said Craig 
proudly. “It was devised by Bertillon himself, 
and he personally gave me permission to copy 


THE SCIENTIFIC CRACKSMAN 45 

Iris own machine. Yon see, it is devised to meas¬ 
ure pressnre. Now let’s take an ordinary jimmy 
and see just how much pressure it takes to dupli¬ 
cate those marks on this door.” 

Craig laid the piece of steel on the dynamo¬ 
meter in the position it had occupied in the safe, 
and braced it tightly. Then he took a jimmy and 
pressed on it with all his strength. The steel 
door was connected with the indicator, and the 
needle spun around until it indicated a pressure 
such as only a strong man could have exerted. 
Comparing the marks made in the steel in the 
experiment and by the safe-cracker, it was evi¬ 
dent that no such pressure had been necessary. 
Apparently the lock on the door was only a 
trifling affair, and the steel itself was not very 
tough. The safe-makers had relied on the first 
line of defence to repel attack. 

Craig tried again and again, each time using 
less force. At last he got a mark just about sim¬ 
ilar to the original marks on the steel. 

“Well, well, what do you think of that?” he 
exclaimed reflectively. “A child could have done 
that part of the job.” 

Just then the lights went off for the night. 
Craig lighted the oil-lamp, and sat in silence un¬ 
til the electric light plant foreman appeared with 
the card-record, which showed a curve practically 
identical with that of the night before. 

A few moments later Professor Fletcher’s ma- 


4 6 


THE SILENT BULLET 


chine came up the driveway, and he joined us 
with a worried and preoccupied look on his face 
that he'could not conceal. ‘ ‘ She’s terribly broken 
up by the suddenness of it all,” he murmured as 
he sank into an armchair. “The shock has been 
too much for her. In fact, I hadn’t the heart to 
tell her anything about the robbery, poor girl.” 
Then in a moment he asked, “Any more clues yet, 
Kennedy ?’ ’ 

“Well, nothing of first importance. I have 
only been trying to reconstruct the story of the 
robbery so that I can reason out a motive and a 
few details; then when the real clues come along 
we won’t have so much ground to cover. The 
cracksman was certainly clever. He used an 
electric drill to break the combination and ran it 
by the electric light current.” 

“Whew!” exclaimed the professor, “is that 
so? He must have been above the average. 
That’s interesting.” 

.“By the way, Fletcher,” said Kennedy, “I 
wish you would introduce me to your fiancee to¬ 
morrow. I would like to know her.” 

Gladly,” Fletcher replied, “only you must 
be careful what you talk about. Remember, the 
death of uncle has been quite a shock to her—he 
was her only relative besides myself.” 

“I will >” promised Kennedy, “and by the way, 
she may think it strange that I’m out here at a 
time like this. Perhaps you had better tell her 


THE SCIENTIFIC CRACKSMAN 47 

I’m a nerve specialist or something of that 
sort—anything not to connect me with the 
robbery, which yon say you haven’t told her 
about. ’ ’ 

The next morning found Kennedy out bright 
and early, for he had not had a very good chance 
to do anything during the night except recon¬ 
struct the details. He was now down by the back 
gate with his camera, where I found him turning 
it end-down and photographing the road. To¬ 
gether we made a thorough search of the woods 
and the road about the gate, but could discover 
absolutely nothing. 

After breakfast I improvised a dark room and 
developed the films, while Craig went down the 
back lane along the shore “looking for clues ,’ T 
as he said briefly. Toward noon he returned, 
and I could see that he was in a brown study. 
So I said nothing, but handed him the photo¬ 
graphs of the road. He took them and laid them 
down in a long line on the library floor. They 
seemed to consist of little ridges of dirt on either 
side of a series of regular round spots, some of 
the spots very clear and distinct on the sides, 
others quite obscure in the centre. Now and then 
where you would expect to see one of the spots, 
just for the symmetry of the thing, it was miss¬ 
ing. As I looked at the line of photographs on 
the floor I saw that they were a photograph of the 
track made by the tire of an automobile, and 


48 THE SILENT BULLET 

I suddenly; recalled what the gardener had 
said. 

Next Craig produced the results of his morn¬ 
ing’s work, which consisted of several dozen 
sheets of white paper, carefully separated into 
three bundles. These he also laid down in long 
lines on the floor, each package in a separate line. 
Then I began to realise what he was doing, and 
became fascinated in watching him on his hands 
and knees eagerly scanning the papers and com¬ 
paring them with the photographs. At last he 
gathered up two of the sets of papers very de¬ 
cisively and threw them away. Then he shifted 
the third set a bit, and laid it closely parallel to 
the photographs. 

“Look at these, Walter,” he said. “Now take 
this deep and sharp indentation. Well, there’s eC 
corresponding one in the photograph. So yon 
can pick them out one for another. Now here’s 
one missing altogether on the paper. So it is in 
the photograph.” 

Almost like a schoolboy in his glee, he was com¬ 
paring the little round circles made by the metal 
insertions in an “anti-skid” automobile tire. 
Time and again I had seen imprints like that left 
in the dust and grease of an asphalted street or 
the mud of a road. It had never occurred to me 
that they might be used in any way. Yet here 
Craig was, calmly tracing out the similarity be¬ 
fore my very eyes, identifying the marks made 


THE SCIENTIFIC CRACKSMAN 49 

in the photograph with the prints left on the hits 
of paper. 

As I followed him, I had a most curious feeling 
of admiration for his genius. “Craig,” I cried, 
“that’s the thumb-print of an automobile.” 

“There speaks the yellow journalist,” he an¬ 
swered merrily. “ 1 Thumb Print System Ap¬ 
plied to Motor Cars’—I can see the Sunday fea¬ 
ture story you have in your mind with that head¬ 
line already. Yes, Walter, that’s precisely what 
this is. The Berlin police have used it a number 
of times with the most startling results.” 

“But, Craig,” I exclaimed suddenly, “the 
paper prints, where did you get them? What 
machine is it?” 

“It’s one not very far from here,” he an¬ 
swered sententiously, and I saw he would say 
nothing more that might fix a false suspicion on 
anyone. Still, my curiosity was so great that if 
there had been an opportunity I certainly should 
have tried out his plan on all the cars in the 
Fletcher garage. 

Kennedy would say nothing more, and we ate 
our luncheon in silence. Fletcher, who had de¬ 
cided to lunch with the Greenes, called Kennedy 
up on the telephone to tell him it would be all 
right for him to call on Miss Bond later in the 
afternoon. 

“And I may bring over the apparatus I once 
described to you to determine just what her nerv- 


50 


THE SILENT BULLET 


ous condition is?” he asked. Apparently the an¬ 
swer was yes, for Kennedy hnng np the receiver 
with a satisfied, “Good-bye.” 

“Walter, I want yon to come along with me 
this afternoon as my assistant. Remember I’m 
now Dr. Kennedy, the nerve specialist, and 
yon are Dr. Jameson, my colleague, and we are 
to he in consultation on a most important 
case.” 

“Do you think that’s fair?” I asked hotly— 
“to take that girl off her guard, to insinuate 
yourself into her confidence as a medical adviser, 
and worm out of her some kind of fact incrimi¬ 
nating someone? I suppose that’s your plan, 
and I don’t like the ethics, or rather the lack of 
ethics, of the thing.” 

“Now think a minute, Walter. Perhaps I am 
wrong; I don’t know. Certainly I feel that the 
end will justify the means. I have an idea that 
I can get from Miss Bond the only clue that I 
need, one that will lead straight to the criminal. 
Who knows? I have a suspicion that the thing 
I’m going to do is the highest form of your so- 
called ethics. If what Fletcher tells us is true 
that girl is going insane over this thing. Why 
should she be so shocked over the death of an 
uncle she did not live with? I tell you she knows 
something about this case that it is necessary for 
us to know, too. If she doesn’t tell someone, it 
will eat her mind out. I’ll add a dinner to the 


THE SCIENTIFIC CRACKSMAN 51 

box of cigars we have already bet on this case 
that what I’m going to do is for the best—for 
her best.” 

Again I yielded, for I was coming to have more 
and more faith in the old Kennedy I had seen 
made over into a first-class detective, and to¬ 
gether we started for the Greenes’, Craig carry¬ 
ing something in one of those long black hand¬ 
bags which physicians nse. 

Fletcher met ns on the driveway. He seemed 
to be very mnch affected, for his face was drawn, 
and he shifted from one position to another nerv¬ 
ously, from which we inferred that Miss Bond 
was feeling worse. It was late afternoon, almost 
verging on twilight, as he led us through the re¬ 
ception-hall and thence onto a long porch over¬ 
looking the bay and redolent with honeysuckle. 

Miss Bond was half reclining in a wicker chair 
as we entered. She started to rise to greet us, 
but Fletcher gently restrained her, saying, as he 
introduced us, that he guessed the doctors would 
pardon any informality from an invalid. 

Fletcher was a pretty fine fellow, and I had 
come to like him; but I soon found myself won¬ 
dering what he had ever done to deserve winning 
such a girl as Helen Bond. She was what I 
should describe as the ideal type of “new” wo¬ 
man,—tall and athletic, yet without any affecta¬ 
tion of mannishness. The very first thought that 
struck me was the incongruousness of a girl of 


I 


52 


THE SILENT BULLET 


her type suffering from an attack of “nerves,’* 
and I felt sure it must be as Craig bad said, that 
she was concealing a secret that was having 3 
terrible effect on her. A casual glance might not 
have betrayed the true state of her feelings, for 
her dark hair and large brown eyes and the tan ! 
of many suns on her face and arms betokened 
anything but the neurasthenic. One felt instinct¬ 
ively that she was, with all her athletic grace, 
primarily a womanly woman. 

The sun sinking toward the hills across the bay 
softened the brown of her skin and, as I observed 
by watching her closely, served partially to con¬ 
ceal the nervousness which was wholly unnatural 
in a girl of such poise. When she smiled there 
was a false note in it; it was forced and it was 
sufficiently evident to me that she was going 
through a mental hell of conflicting emotions that 
would have killed a woman of less self-control. 

I felt that I would like to be in Fletcher’s shoes 
—doubly so when, at Kennedy’s request, he with¬ 
drew, leaving me to witness the torture of a wo¬ 
man of such fine sensibilities, already hunted re¬ 
morselessly by he*r own thoughts. 

Still, I will give Kennedy credit for a tactful¬ 
ness that I didn’t know the old fellow possessed. 
He carried through the preliminary questions 
very well for a pseudo-doctor, appealing to me as 
his assistant on inconsequential things that en¬ 
abled me to “save my face” perfectly. When he 


THE SCIENTIFIC CRACKSMAN 53 

came to the critical moment of opening the black 
bag, he made a very appropriate and easy re¬ 
mark abont not having brought any sharp shiny 
instruments or nasty black drugs. 

“ All I wish to do, Miss Bond, is to make a few 
simple little tests of your nervous condition. 
One of them we specialists call reaction time, and 
another is a test of heart action. Neither is of 
any seriousness at all, so I beg of you not to be¬ 
come excited, for the chief value consists in hav¬ 
ing the patient perfectly quiet and normal. After 
they are over I think I’ll know whether to pre¬ 
scribe absolute rest or a visit to Newport.” 

She smiled languidly, as he adjusted a long, 
tightly fitting rubber glove on her shapely fore¬ 
arm and then encased it in a larger, absolutely in¬ 
flexible covering of leather. Between the rubber 
glove and the leather covering was a liquid com¬ 
municating by a glass tube with a sort of dial. 
Craig had often explained to me how the pressure 
of the blood was registered most minutely on the 
dial, showing the varied emotions as keenly as if 
you had taken a peep into the very mind of the 
subject. I think the experimental psychologists 
called the thing a “plethysmograph.” 

Then he had an apparatus which measured! 
“association time.” The essential part of this in¬ 
strument was the operation of a very delicate 
stop-watch, and this duty was given to me. It 
was nothing more nor less than measuring the 


54 THE SILENT BULLET 

time that elapsed between his questions to her 
and her answers, while he recorded the actual 
questions and answers and noted the results 
which I worked out. Neither of us was unfa 
miliar with the process, for when we were in col¬ 
lege these instruments were just coming into uso 
in America. Kennedy had never let his particu¬ 
lar branch of science narrow him, but had mad^ 
a practice of keeping abreast of all the important 
discoveries and methods in other fields. Besides, 
I had read articles about the chronoscope, the 
plethysmograph, the sphygmograph, and others 
of the new psychological instruments. Craig car¬ 
ried it off, however, as if he did that sort of thing 
as an every-day employment. 

“Now, Miss Bond,” he said, and his voice was 
so reassuring and persuasive that I could see she 
was not made even a shade more nervous by our 
simple preparations, “the game—it is just like 
a children’s parlour game—is just this: I will 
say a word—take ‘dog,’ for instance. You are 
to answer back immediately the first word that 
comes into your mind suggested by it—say ‘cat.’ 
I will say ‘chain,’ for example, and probably you 
will answer ‘collar,’ and so on. Do you catch my 
meaning? It may seem ridiculous, no doubt, but 
before we are through I feel sure you’ll see how 
valuable such a test is, particularly in a simple 
case of nervousness such as yours.” 

I don’t think she found any sinister interpreta- 


THE SCIENTIFIC CRACKSMAN 55 

tion in his words, but I did, and if ever I wanted 
to protest it was then, but my voice seemed to 
stick in my throat. 

He was beginning. It was clearly up to me to 
give in and not interfere. As closely as I was 
able I kept my eyes riveted on the watch and other 
apparatus, while my ears and heart followed with 
mingled emotions the low, musical voice of the 
girl. 

I will not give all the test, for there was much 
of it, particularly at the start, that was in reality 
valueless, since it was merely leading up to the 
“ surprise tests/’ From the colourless questions 
Kennedy suddenly changed. It was done in an 
instant, when Miss Bond had been completely dis¬ 
armed and put oft her guard. 

“Night ,’ 9 said Kennedy. “Day,” came back 
the reply from Miss Bond. 


“Automobile.” “Horse. 

“Bay.” 

“Beach.” 

“Road.” 

“Forest.” 

“Gate.” 

“Fence.” 

“Path.” 

“Shrubs.” 

“Porch.” 

“House.” 


Did I detect or imagine a faint hesitation? 

“Window.” “Curtain.” 

Yes, it was plain that time. But the words fol¬ 
lowed one another in quick succession. There 
was no rest. She had no chance to collect her¬ 
self. I noted the marked difference in the reac- 


56 


THE SILENT BULLET 

tion time and, in my sympathy, damned this cold, 
scientific third degree. 

“Paris.” “France.” 

“Quartier Latin.” “Students.” 

“Apaches.” Craig gave it its Gallieised pro¬ 
nunciation, “Apash.” “Keally, Dr. Kennedy,” 
she said, “there is nothing I can associate with 
them—well, yes, les vaches, I believe. You had 
better count that question out. I’ve wasted a 
good many seconds.” 

“Very well, let us try again,” he replied with 
a forced unconcern, though the answer seemed to 
interest him, for “les vaches” meant “the cows,” 
otherwise known as the police. 

No lawyer could have revelled in an opportu¬ 
nity for putting leading questions more ruthlessly 
than did Kennedy. He snapped out his words' 
sharply and unexpectedly. 

“Chandelier.” “Light.” 

“Electric light,” he emphasised. “Broad¬ 
way,” she answered, endeavouring to force a new 
association of ideas to replace ohv which she 
strove to conceal. 

“Safe.” “Vaults.” Out of the corner of my' 
eye I could see that the indicator showed a tre¬ 
mendously increased heart action. As for the 
reaction time, I noted that it was growing longer 
and more significant. Bemorselessly he pressed 
his words home. Mentally I cursed him. 

“Bubber.” “Tire.” 


THE SCIENTIFIC CRACKSMAN 57 

“Steel.” “Pittsburg,” she cried at random. 

“Strong-box,” No answer. 

“Lock.” Again no answer. He hurried his 
words. I was leaning forward, tense with excite¬ 
ment and sympathy. 

“Key.” Silence and a fluttering of the blood- 
pressure indicator. 

“Will.” 

As the last word was uttered her air of fright¬ 
ened defiance was swept away. With a cry of 
anguish, she swayed to her feet. “No, no, doc¬ 
tor, you must not, you must not,” she cried with 
outstretched arms. “Why do you pick out those 
words of all others? Can it be—” If I had not 
caught her I believe she would have fainted. 

The indicator showed a heart alternately 
throbbing with feverish excitement and almost 
stopping with fear. What would Kennedy do 
next, I wondered, determined to shut him off as 
soon as I possibly could. From the moment I 
had seen her I had been under her spell. Mine 
should have been Fletcher’s place, I knew, though 
I cannot but say that I felt a certain grim pleas¬ 
ure in supporting even momentarily such a wo¬ 
man in her time of need. 

“Can it be that you have guessed what no one 
in the world, no, not even dear old Jack, dreams? 
Oh, I shall go mad, mad, mad!” 

Kennedy was on his feet in an instant, advanc¬ 
ing toward her. The look in his eyes was answer 


58 THE SILENT BULLET 

enough for her. She knew that he knew, and she 
paled and shuddered, shrinking away from him. 

‘‘ Miss Bond,” he said in a voice that forced 
attention—it was low and vibrating with feeling 
—“Miss Bond, have you ever told a lie to shield 
a friend?” 

“Yes,” she said, her eyes meeting his. 

“So can I,” came back the same tense voice, 
“when I know the truth about that friend.” 

Then for the first time tears came in a storm. 
Her breath was quick and feverish. “No onel 
will ever believe, no one will understand. They 
will say that I killed him, that I murdered him.” 

Through it all I stood almost speechless, puz¬ 
zled. What did it all mean? 

“No,” said Kennedy, “no, for they will never 
know of it.” 

“Never know?” 

“Never—if in the end justice is done. Have 
you the will? Or did you destroy it?” 

It was a bold stroke. 

“Yes. No. Here it is. How could I de- 
, stroy it, even though it was burning out my very 
soul?” 

She literally tore the paper from the bosom 
of her dress and cast it from her in horror and 
terror. 

Kennedy picked it up, opened it, and glanced 
hurriedly through it. “Miss Bond,” he said, 
“Jack shall never know a word of this. I shall 


THE SCIENTIFIC CRACKSMAN 59 

tell him that the will has been found unexpect¬ 
edly in John Fletcher’s desk among some other 
papers. Walter, swear on your honour as a gen¬ 
tleman that this will was found in old Fletcher’s 
desk.” 

4 ‘ Dr. Kennedy, how can I ever thank you % ’ ’ she 
exclaimed, sinking wearily down into a chair 
and pressing her hands to her throbbing fore¬ 
head. 

“By telling me just how you came by this will, 
so that when you and Fletcher are married I may 
be as good a friend, without suspicion, to you as 
I am to him. I think a full confession would do 
you good, Miss Bond. Would you prefer to have 
Dr. Jameson not hear it?” 

“No, he may stay.” 

“This much I know, Miss Bond. Last summer 
in Paris with the Greenes you must have chanced 
to hear of Pillard, the Apache, one of the most 
noted cracksmen the world has ever produced. 
You sought him out. He taught you how to 
paint your fingers with a rubber composition, 
how to use an electric drill, how to use the old- 
fashioned jimmy. You went down to Fletcher- 
wood by the back road about a quarter after 
eleven the night of the robbery in the Greenes’ 
little electric runabout. You entered the library 
by an unlocked window, you coupled your drill to 
the electric light connections of the chandelier. 
You had to work quickly, for the power would 


6 


SILENT BULLET 

go at Liidnigbr, j you could not do the job 
later, when they were sleeping more soundly, for 
the very same reason.’’ 

It was uncanny as Kennedy rushed along in his 
reconstruction of the scene, almost unbelievable. 
The girl watched him, fascinated. 

“John Fletcher was wakeful that night. Some¬ 
how or other he heard you at work. He entered 
the library and, by the light streaming from his 
bedroom, he saw who it was. In anger he must 
have addressed you, and his passion got the bet¬ 
ter of his age—he fell suddenly on the floor with 
a stroke of apoplexy. As you bent over him he 
died. But why did you ever attempt so foolish 
an undertaking? Didn’t you know that other 
people knew of the will and its terms, that you 
were sore to be traced out in the end, if not by 
friends, by foes? How did you suppose you 
could profit by destroying the will, of which 
others knew the provisions?” 

Any other woman than Helen Bond would have 
been hysterical long before Kennedy had finished 
pressing home remorselessly one fact after an¬ 
other of her story. But, with her, the relief now 
after the tension of many hours of concealment 
seemed to nerve her to go to the end and tell the 
truth. 

What was it? Had she some secret lover for 
whom she had dared all to secure the family for¬ 
tune? Or was she shielding someone dearer to 


THE SCIENTIFIC CRACKSMAN 61 

lier than her own reputation! Why had Ken¬ 
nedy made Fletcher withdraw! 

Her eyes dropped and her breast rose and fell 
with suppressed emotion. Yet I was hardly pre¬ 
pared for her reply when at last she slowly raised 
her head and looked us calmly in the face. 

“I did it because I loved Jack.” 

Neither of us spoke. I, at least, had fallen 
completely under the spell of this masterful wo¬ 
man. Right or wrong, I could not restrain a 
feeling of admiration and amazement. 

“Yes,” she said as her voice thrilled with emo¬ 
tion, “strange as it may sound to you, it was not 
love of self that made me do it. I was, I am 
madly in love with Jack. No other man has 
ever inspired such respect and love as he has. 
His work in the university I have fairly gloated 
over. And yet—and yet, Dr. Kennedy, can you 
not see that I am different from Jack! What 
would I do with the income of the wife of even 
the dean of the new school! The annuity pro¬ 
vided for me in that will is paltry. I need mil¬ 
lions. From the tiniest baby I have been reared 
that way. I have always expected this fortune. 
I have been given everything I wanted. But it 
is different when one is married—you must have 
your own money. I need a fortune, for then I 
could have the town house, the country house, 
the yacht, the motors, the clothes, the servants 
that I need—they are as much a part of my life 


62 THE SILENT BULLET 

as your profession is of yours. I must have 
them. 

“And now it was all to slip from my hands. 
True, it was to go in such a way by this last will 
as to make Jack happy in his new school. I 
could have let that go, if that was all. There are 
other fortunes that have been laid at my feet. 
But I wanted Jack, and I knew Jack wanted me. 
Bear boy, he never could realise how utterly un¬ 
happy intellectual poverty would have made me 
and how my unhappiness would have reacted on 
him in the end. In reality this great and benefi¬ 
cent philanthropy was finally to blight both our 
love and our lives. 

“What was I to do? Stand by and see my life 
and my love ruined or refuse Jack for the for¬ 
tune of a man I did not love? Helen Bond is not 
that kind of a woman, I said to myself. I con¬ 
sulted the greatest lawyer I knew. I put a 
hypothetical case to him, and asked his opinion 
in such a way as to make him believe he was ad¬ 
vising me how to make an unbreakable will. He 
told me of provisions and clauses to avoid, par¬ 
ticularly in making benefactions. That was what 
I wanted to know. I would put one of those 
clauses in my uncle’s will. I practised uncle’s 
writing till I was as good a forger of that clause 
as anyone could have become. I had picked out 
the very words in his own handwriting to prac¬ 
tise from. 


THE SCIENTIFIC CRACKSMAN 63 

“Then I went to Paris and, as you have 
guessed, learned how to get things out of a safe 
like that of uncle’s. Before God, all I planned 
to do was to get that will, change it, replace it, 
and trust that uncle would never notice the 
change. Then when he was gone, I would have 
contested the will. I would have got my full 
share either by court proceedings or by settle¬ 
ment out of court. You see, I had planned it all 
out}. The school would have been founded—I, 
we would have founded it. What difference, I 
said, did thirty millions or fifty millions make to 
an impersonal school, a school not yet even in ex¬ 
istence? The twenty million dollars or so differ¬ 
ence, or even half of it, meant life and love to me. 

“I had planned to steal the cash in the safe, 
anything to divert attention from the will and 
make it look like a plain robbery. I would have 
done the altering of the will that night and have 
returned it to the safe before morning. But it 
was not to be. I had almost opened the safe 
when my uncle entered the room. His anger com¬ 
pletely unnerved me, and from the moment I 
saw him on the floor to this I haven’t had a sane 
thought. I forgot to take the cash, I forgot 
everything but that will. My only thought was 
that I must get it and destroy it. I doubt if I 
could have altered it with my nerves so upset. 
There, now you have my whole story. I am at 
your mercy.” 


64 


THE SILENT BULLET 


“No,” said Kennedy, “believe me, there is a> 
mental statute of limitations that as far as Jame¬ 
son and myself are concerned has already erased 
this affair. Walter, will you find Fletcher?” 

I found the professor pacing up and down the 
gravel walk impatiently. 

“Fletcher,” said Kennedy, “a nights rest is 
all Miss Bond really needs. It is simply a case 
of overwrought nerves, and it will pass off of it¬ 
self. Still, I would advise a change of scene as 
soon as possible. Good afternoon, Miss Bond, 
and my best wishes for your health'.” 

“Good afternoon, Dr. Kennedy. Good after¬ 
noon, Dr. Jameson.” 

I for one was glad to make my escape. 

A half-hour later, Kennedy, with well-simu¬ 
lated excitement, was racing me in the car up to 
the Greenes’ again. We literally burst unan¬ 
nounced into the tete-a-tete on the porch. 

“Fletcher, Fletcher,” cried Kennedy, “look 
what Walter and I have just discovered in a tin 
strong-box poked off in the back of your uncle’s 
desk!” 

Fletcher seized the will and by the dim light 
that shone through from the hall read it hastily. 
“♦Thank God,” he cried; “the school is provided 
for as I thought.” 

“Isn’t it glorious!” murmured Helen. 

True to my instinct I muttered, “Another good 
newspaper yarn killed.” 


Ill 


THE BACTERIOLOGICAL DETECTIVE 

Kennedy was deeply immersed in writing a lec¬ 
ture on the chemical compositions of various bac¬ 
terial toxins and antitoxins, a thing which was as 
unfamiliar to me as Kamchatka, but as familiar 
to Kennedy as Broadway and Forty-second 
Street. 

“Beally,” he remarked, laying down his foun¬ 
tain-pen and lighting his cigar for the hundredth 
time, “the more one thinks of how the modern 
criminal misses his opportunities the more aston¬ 
ishing it seems. Why do they stick to pistols, 
chloroform, and prussic acid when there is such 
a splendid assortment of refined methods they 
might employ?” 

“Give it up, old man,” I replied helplessly, 
“unless it is because they haven’t any imagination. 
I hope they don’t use them. What would become 
of my business if they did? How would you ever 
get a really dramatic news feature for the Star 
out of such a thing? ‘Dotted line marks route 
taken by fatal germ; cross indicates spot where 
antitoxin attacked it’—ha! ha! not much for the 
yellow journals in that, Craig.” 

65 


■66 THE SILENT BULLET 

“To my mind, Walter, it would be the height 
of the dramatic—far more dramatic than sending 
a bullet into a man. Any fool can shoot a pistol 
or cut a throat, but it takes brains to be up-to- 
date.’ ’ 

“It may be so,” I admitted, and went on read¬ 
ing, while Kennedy scratched away diligently on 
his lecture. I mention this conversation both be¬ 
cause it bears on my story, by a rather peculiar 
coincidence, and because it showed me a new side 
of Kennedy’s amazing researches. He was as 
much interested in bacteria as in chemistry, and 
the story is one of bacteria. 

It was perhaps a quarter of an hour later when 
the buzzer on our hall door sounded. Imagine 
my surprise on opening the door to discover the 
slight figure of what appeared to be a most fasci¬ 
nating young lady who was heavily veiled. She 
was in a state almost bordering on hysteria, as 
even I, in spite of my usual obtuseness, noticed. 

“Is Professor Kennedy in?” she inquired 
anxiously. 

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, opening the door into 
our study. 

She advanced toward him, repeating her in¬ 
quiry. 

“I am Professor Kennedy. Pray be seated,” 
he said. 

The presence of a lady in our apartment was 
such a novelty that really I forgot to disappear, 


BACTERIOLOGICAL DETECTIVE 67 

but busied myself straightening the furniture and 
opening a window to allow the odour of stale to¬ 
bacco to escape. 

“My name is Eveline Bisbee,” she began. “I 
have heard, Professor Kennedy, that you are an 
adept at getting at the bottom of difficult mys¬ 
teries.” 

“You flatter me,” he said in acknowledgment. 
“Who was so foolish as to tell you that?” 

“A friend who has heard of the Kerr Parker 
case,” she replied. 

“I beg your pardon,” I interrupted, “I didn’t 
mean to intrude. I think I’ll go out. I’ll be back 
in an hour or two.” 

“Please, Mr. Jameson—it is Mr. Jameson, is it 
not?” 

I bowed in surprise. 

“If it is possible I wish you would stay and 
bear my story. I am told that you and Professor 
Kennedy always work together. ’ ’ 

It was my turn to be embarrassed by the com¬ 
pliment. 

“Mrs. Fletcher, of Great Neck,” she explained, 
“has told me. I believe Professor Kennedy per¬ 
formed a great service for the Fletchers, though 
I do not know what it was. At any rate, I have 
come to you with my case, in which I have small 
hope of obtaining assistance unless you can help 
me. If Professor Kennedy cannot solve it—well, 
I’m afraid nobody can.” She paused a moment, 


68 


THE SILENT BULLET 


then added, “No doubt you have read of the death 
of my guardian the other day.” 

Of course we had. Who did not know that 
“Jim” Bisbee, the southern California oil-mag¬ 
nate, had died suddenly of typhoid fever at the 
private hospital of Dr. Bell, where he had been 
taken from his magnificent apartment on River¬ 
side Drive! Kennedy and I had discussed it at 
the time. We had commented on the artificiality 
of the twentieth century. No longer did people 
have homes; they had apartments, I had said. 
They didn’t fall ill in the good old-fashioned way 
any more, either—in fact, they even hired special 
rooms to die in. They hired halls for funeral 
services. It was a wonder that they didn’t hire 
graves. It was all part of our twentieth century 
break-up of tradition. Indeed we did know about 
the death of Jim Bisbee. But there was nothing 
mysterious about it. It was just typical in all its 
surroundings of the first decade of the twentieth 
century in a great, artificial city—a lonely death 
of a great man surrounded by all that money 
could buy. 

We had read of his ward, too, the beautiful Miss' 
Eveline Bisbee, a distant relation. As under the 
heat of the room and her excitement, she raised 
her veil, we were very much interested in her. At 
least, I am sure that even Kennedy had by this 
time completely forgotten the lecture on toxins. 

“There is something about my guardian’s 


BACTERIOLOGICAL DETECTIVE 69 

"death, ” she began in a low and tremnlons voice, 
“that I am snre will hear investigating. It may 
be only a woman’s foolish fears, bnt—but—I 
haven’t told this to a soul till now, except Mrs. 
Eletcher. My guardian had, as you perhaps 
know, spent his summer at his country place at 
Bisbee Hall, New Jersey, from which he returned 
rather suddenly about a week ago. Our friends 
thought it merely a strange whim that he should 
return to the city before the summer was fairly 
over, but it was not. The day before he returned, 
his gardener fell sick of typhoid. That decided 
Mr. Bisbee to return to the city on the following 
day. Imagine his consternation to find his valet 
stricken the very next morning. Of course hei 
motored to New York immediately, then he wired 
to me at Newport, and together we opened his 
apartment at the Louis Quinze. 

“But that was not to be the end of it. One 
after another, the servants at Bisbee Hall were 
taken with the disease until five of them were 
down. Then came the last blow—Mr. Bisbee fell 
a victim in New York. So far I have been 
spared. But who knows how much longer it will 
last? I have been so frightened that I haven’t 
eaten a meal in the apartment since I came back. 
When I am hungry I simply steal out to a hotel— 
a different one every time. I never drink any 
water except that which I have surreptitiously 
boiled in my own room over a gas-stove. Disin- 


70 THE SILENT BULLET 

fectants and germicides have been used by the 
gallon, and still I don’t feel safe. Even the 
health authorities don’t remove my fears. With 
my guardian’s death I had begun to feel that pos¬ 
sibly it was over. But no. This morning an¬ 
other servant who came up from the hall last week 
was taken sick, and the doctor pronounces that 
typhoid, too. Will I be the next? Is it just a 
foolish fear? Why does it pursue us to New 
York? Why didn’t it stop at Bisbee Hall?” 

I don’t think I ever saw a living creature more 
overcome by horror, by an invisible, deadly fear. 
That was why it was doubly horrible in a girl so 
attractive as Eveline Bisbee. As I listened I felt 
how terrible it must be to be pursued by such a 
fear. What must it be to be dogged by a dis¬ 
ease as relentlessly as the typhoid had dogged 
her? If it had been some great, but visible, tan¬ 
gible peril how gladly I could have faced it merely 
for the smile of a woman like this. But it was a 
peril that only knowledge and patience could 
meet. Instinctively I turned toward Kennedy, 
my own mind being an absolute blank. 

“Is there anyone you suspect of being the cause 
of such an epidemic?” he asked. “I may as well 
tell you right now that I have already formed two 
theories—one perfectly natural, the other diabol¬ 
ical. Tell me everything.” 

“Well, I had expected to receive a fortune of 
one million dollars, free and clear, by his will. 


BACTERIOLOGICAL DETECTIVE 71 

and this morning I am informed by his lawyer,, 
James Denny, that a new will had been made. It 
is still one million. But the remainder, instead 
of going to a number of charities in which he was 
known to be interested, goes to form a trust fund 
for the Bisbee School of Mechanical Arts, of 
which Mr. Denny is the sole trustee. Of course, 
I do not know much about my guardian’s inter¬ 
ests while he was alive, but it strikes me as 
strange, that he should have changed so radically, 
and, besides, the new will is so worded that if I 
die without children my million also goes to this 
school—location unnamed. I can’t help wonder¬ 
ing about it all.” 

“Why should you wonder—at least what other 
reasons have you for wondering?” 

“Oh, I can’t express them. Maybe after all 
it’s only a woman’s silly intuition. But often I 
have thought in the past few days about this ill¬ 
ness of my guardian. It was so queer. He was 
always so careful. And you know the rich don’t 
often have typhoid.” 

“You have no reason to suppose that it was 
not typhoid fever of which he died?” 

She hesitated. “No,” she replied, “hut if you 
had known Mr. Bisbee you would think it strange, 
too. He had a horror of infectious and conta¬ 
gious diseases. His apartment and his country 
home were models. No sanitarium could have 
been more punctilious. He lived what one of his 


72 


THE SILENT BULLET 


friends called an antiseptic life. Maybe I am 
foolish, but it keeps getting closer and closer to 
me now, and—well, I wish you’d look into the 
case. Please set my mind at rest and assure me 
that nothing is wrong, that it is all natural.” 

“I will help you, Miss Bisbee. To-morrow 
night I want to take a trip quietly to Bisbee Hall. 
You will see that it is all right, that I have the 
proper letters so I can investigate thoroughly?” 

I shall never forget the mute and eloquent 
thanks with which she said good night after Ken¬ 
nedy’s promise. 

Kennedy sat with his eyes shaded under his 
hand for fully an hour after she had left. Then 
he suddenly jumped up. “Walter,” he said, 
“let us go over to Dr. Bell’s. I know the head 
nurse there. We may possibly learn something.” 

As we sat in the waiting-room with its thick 
Oriental rugs and handsome mahagony furniture, 
I found myself going back to our conversation of 
the early evening. “By Jove, Kennedy, you 
were right,” I exclaimed. “If there is anything 
in this germ-plot idea of hers it is indeed the 
height of the dramatic—it is diabolical. No ordi¬ 
nary mortal would ever be capable of it.” 

Just then the head nurse came in, a large wo¬ 
man breathing of germlessness and cheerfulness 
in her spotless uniform. We were shown every 
courtesy. There was, in fact, nothing to conceal. 
The visit set at rest my last suspicion that per- 


BACTERIOLOGICAL DETECTIVE 73 

haps Jim Bisbee had been poisoned by a drug. 
The charts of his temperature and the sincerity 
of the nurse were absolutely convincing. It had 
really been typhoid, and there was nothing to be 
gained by pursuing that inquiry further. 

Back at the apartment, Craig began packing his 
suit-case with the few things he would need for 
a journey. “I’m going out to Bisbee Hall to¬ 
morrow for a few days, Walter, and if you could 
find it convenient to come along I should like to 
have your assistance. ’ ’ 

“To tell you the truth, Craig, I am afraid to 
go,” I said. 

“You needn’t be. I’m going down to the army 
post on Governor’s Island first to be vaccinated 
against typhoid. Then I am going to wait a few 
hours till it takes effect before going. It’s the 
only place in the city where one can be inoculated 
against it, so far as I know. While three inocu¬ 
lations are really best, I understand that one is 
sufficient for ordinary protection, and that is all 
we shall need, if any.” 

“You’re sure of it?” 

“Almost positive.” 

‘ ‘ Very well, Craig. I ’ll go. ” 

Down at the army post the next morning we 
had no difficulty in being inoculated against the 
disease. The work of immunising our army was 
going on at that time, and several thousands of 
soldiers in various parts of the country had al- 


74 THE SILENT BULLET 

ready been vaccinated, with the best of results- 

“Do many civilians come over to be vacci¬ 
nated ?” asked Craig of Major Carrol, the sur¬ 
geon in charge. 

“Not many, for very few have beard of it,” 
be replied. 

“I suppose you keep a record of them.” 

“Only their names—we can’t follow them up 
outside the army, to see how it works. Still, 
when they come to us as you and Mr. Jameson 
have done we are perfectly willing to vaccinate 
them. The Army Medical Corps takes the posi¬ 
tion that if it is good for the army it is good for 
civil life, and as long as only a few civilians ap¬ 
ply we are perfectly willing to do it for a fee cov¬ 
ering the cost. ’ ’ 

“And would you let me see the list?” 

“Certainly. You may look it over in a mo¬ 
ment.” 

Kennedy glanced hurriedly through the short 
list of names, pulled out his notebook, made an 
entry, and handed the list back. “Thank you, 
Major.” 

Bisbee Hall was a splendid place set in the heart 
of a great park whose area was measured by 
square miles rather than by acres. But Craig did 
not propose to stay there, for he arranged for ac¬ 
commodations in a near-by town, where we were 
to take our meals also. It was late when we ar¬ 
rived, and we spent a restless night, for the in- 


BACTERIOLOGICAL DETECTIVE 75 

oculation “took.” It wasn’t any worse than a 
light attack of the grippe, and in the morning we 
were both all right again, after the passing of 
what is called the “negative phase.” I, for one, 
felt much safer. 

The town was very much excited over the epi¬ 
demic at the hall, and if I had been wondering 
why Craig wanted me along my wonder was soon 
set at rest. He had me scouring the town and 
country looking up every case or rumour of ty¬ 
phoid for miles around. I made the local weekly 
paper my headquarters, and the editor was very 
obliging. He let me read all his news letters 
from his local correspondent at every cross¬ 
roads. I waded through accounts of new calves 
and colts, new fences and barns, who “Sun- 
dayed” with his brother, etc., and soon had a list 
of all the cases in that part of the country. It 
was not a long one, but it was scattered. After 
I had traced them out, following Kennedy’s in¬ 
structions, they showed nothing, except that they 
were unrelated to the epidemic at the hall. 

Meanwhile, Kennedy was very busy there. He 
had a microscope and slides and test-tubes and 
chemicals for testing things, and I don’t know 
what all, for there was not time to initiate me 
into all the mysteries. He tested the water from 
the various driven wells and in the water-tank, 
and the milk from the cows; he tried to find out 
what food had come in from outside, though 


76 THE SILENT BULLET 

there was practically none, for the hall was self- 
supporting. There was no stone he left un¬ 
turned. 

When I rejoined him that night he was clearly 
perplexed. I don’t think my report decreased 
his perplexity, either. 

“ There is only one thing left as far as I have 
been able to discover after one day’s work,” he 
said, after we had gone over our activities for the 
day. “ Jim Bisbee never drank the water from 
his own wells. He always drank a bottled water 
shipped down from a camp of his’ in New York 
State, where he had a remarkable mountain 
spring. I tested a number of the full bottles at the 
hall, but they were perfectly pure. There wasn’t 
a trace of the bacillus typhosus in any of them. 
Then it occurred to me that, after all, that was' 
not the thing to do. I should test the empty ones., 
But there weren’t any empty ones. They told 
me they had all been taken down to the freight 
station yesterday to be shipped back to the camp. 
I hope they haven’t gone yet. Let’s drive around 
and see if they are there.” 

The freight-master was just leaving, but when 
he learned we were from the hall he consented to 
let us examine the bottles. They were corked and 
in wooden cases, which protected them perfectly. 
By the light of the station lamps and the aid of 
a pocket-lens, Kennedy examined them on the 
outside and satisfied himself that after being re- 


BACTERIOLOGICAL DETECTIVE 77 

placed in the wooden cases the bottles themselves 
had not been handled. 

4 ‘Will you let me borrow some of these bottles 
to-night?” he asked the agent. “I’ll give you my 
word that they will be returned safely to-morrow. 
If necessary, I’ll get an order for them.” 

The station-agent reluctantly yielded, espe¬ 
cially as a small green banknote figured in the 
transaction. Craig and I tenderly lifted the big 
bottles in their cases into our trap and drove back 
to our rooms in the hotel. It quite excited the 
hangers-on to see us drive up with a lot of empty 
five-gallon bottles and carry them up-stairs, but 
I had long ago given up having any fear of pub¬ 
lic opinion in carrying out anything Craig wanted. 

In our room we worked far into the night. 
Craig carefully swabbed out the bottom and sides 
of each bottle by inserting a little piece of cotton 
on the end of a long wire. Then he squeezed the 
water out of the cotton swab on small glass 
slides coated with agar-agar, or Japanese sea¬ 
weed, a medium in which germ-cultures multi¬ 
ply rapidly. He put the slides away in a little 
oven with an alcohol-lamp which he had brought 
along, leaving them to remain over night at blood 
heat. 

I had noticed all this time that he was very 
particular not to touch any of the bottles on the 
outside. As for me, I wouldn’t have touched 
them for the world. In fact, I was getting so I 


78 


THE SILENT BULLET 


hesitated to touch anything. I was almost afraid 
to breathe, though I knew there was no harm in 
that. However, it was not danger of infection 
in touching the bottles that made Craig so care¬ 
ful. He had noted, in the dim light of the station 
lamps, what seemed to be finger-marks on the bot¬ 
tles, and they had interested him, in fact, had de¬ 
cided him on a further investigation of the bot¬ 
tles. 

“I am now going to bring out these very faint 
finger-prints on the bottles,” remarked Craig, 
proceeding with his examination in the better 
light of our room. “Here is some powder known 
to chemists as ‘grey powder’—mercury and chalk. 
I sprinkle it over the faint markings, so, and then 
I brush it off with a camel ’s-hair brush lightly. 
That brings out the imprint much more clearly, 
as you can see. For instance, if you place your 
dry thumb on a piece of white paper you leave no 
visible impression. If grey powder is sprinkled 
over the spot and then brushed off a distinct im¬ 
pression is seen. If the impression of the fingers 
is left on something soft, like wax, it is often 
best to use printers’ ink to bring out the ridges 
and patterns of the finger-marks. And so on for 
various materials. Quite a science has been built 
up around finger-prints. 

“I wish I had that enlarging camera which I 
have in my laboratory. However, my ordinary 
camera will do, for all I want is to preserve a 


BACTERIOLOGICAL DETECTIVE 79 

record of these marks, and I can enlarge the 
photographs later. In the morning I will photo¬ 
graph these marks and yon can do the developing 
of the films. To-night we’ll improvise the bath¬ 
room as a dark-room and get everything ready so 
that we can start in bright and early.” 

We were, indeed, np early. One never has 
difficulty in getting np early in the country: it is 
so noisy, at least to a city-bred man. City noise 
at five a. m. is sepulchral silence compared with 
bucolic activity at that hour. 

There were a dozen negatives which I set about 
developing after Craig had used up all our films. 
Meanwhile, he busied himself adjusting his mi¬ 
croscope and test-tubes and getting the agar 
slides ready for examination. 

Shirt-sleeves rolled up, I was deeply immersed 
in my work when I heard a shout in the next 
room, and the bath-room door flew open. 

“Confound you, Kennedy, do you want to ruin 
these films!” I cried. 

He shut the door with a bang. “Hurrah, 
Walter!” he exclaimed. “I think I have it, at 
last. I have just found some most promising 
colonies of the bacilli on one of my slides.” 

I almost dropped the pan of acid I was hold¬ 
ing, in my excitement. “Well,” I said, conceal¬ 
ing my own surprise, “I’ve found out something, 
too. Every one of these finger-prints so far is 
from the same pair of hands.” 


80 


THE SILENT BULLET 


We scarcely ate any breakfast, and were soon 
on our way up to the ball. Craig had provided 
himself at the local stationer’s with an inking- 
pad, such as is used for rubber stamps. At the 
hall he proceeded to get the impressions of the 
fingers and thumbs of all the servants. 

It was quite a long and difficult piece of work 
to compare the finger-prints we had taken with 
those photographed, in spite of the fact that 
writers descant on the ease with which criminals 
are traced by this system devised by the famous 
Galton. However, we at last finished the job be¬ 
tween us; or rather Craig finished it, with an oc¬ 
casional remark from me. His dexterity amazed 
me; it was more than mere book knowledge. 

For a moment we sat regarding each other hope¬ 
lessly. None of the finger-prints taken at the hall 
tallied with the photographed prints. Then 
Craig rang for the housekeeper, a faithful old 
soul whom even the typhoid scare could not budge 
from her post. 

“Are you sure I have seen all the servants who 
were at the hall while Mr. Bisbee was here!” 
asked Craig. 

“Why, no, sir—you didn’t ask that. You 
asked to see all who are here now. There is only 
one who has left, the cook, Bridget Fallon. She 
left a couple of days ago—said she was going 
back to New York to get another job. Glad 
.enough I was to get rid of her, too, for she was 


BACTERIOLOGICAL DETECTIVE 81 

drunk most of the time after the typhoid ap« 
peared.” 

“Well, Walter, I guess we shall have to go 
back to New York again, then,” exclaimed Ken¬ 
nedy. 6 ‘ Oh, I beg pardon, Mrs. Rawson, for in¬ 
terrupting. Thank you ever so much. Where 
did Bridget come from?” 

“She came well recommended, sir. Here is the 
letter in my writing-desk. She had been em¬ 
ployed by the Caswell-Joneses at Shelter Island 
before she came here.” 

“I may keep this letter?” asked Craig, scan¬ 
ning it quickly. 

“Yes.” 

“By the way, where were the bottles of spring 
water kept?” 

“In the kitchen.” 

“Did Bridget take charge of them?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did Mr. Bisbee have any guests during the 
last week that he was here?” 

“Only Mr. Denny one night.” 

“H’m!” exclaimed Craig., “Well, it will not 
ibe so hard for us to unravel this matter, after 
all, when we get back to the city. We must make 
that noon train, Walter. There is nothing more 
for us to do here.” 

Emerging from the “Tube” at Ninth Street, 
Craig hustled me into a taxicab, and in almost 
no time we were at police headquarters. 


82 THE SILENT BULLET 

Fortunately, Inspector Barney O’Connor was 
in and in an amiable mood, too, for Kennedy bad 
been careful that the Central Office received a 
large share of credit for the Kerr Parker case. 
Craig sketched hastily the details of this new 
case. O’Connor’s face was a study. His honest 
blue Irish eyes fairly bulged in wonder, and when 
Craig concluded with a request for help I think 
O’Connor would have given him anything in the 
office, just to figure in the case. 

“ First, I want one of your men to go to the 
surrogate’s office and get the original of the will. 
I shall return it within a couple of hours—all I 
want to do is to make a photographic copy. 
Then another man must find this lawyer, James 
Benny, and in some way get his finger-prints— 
you must arrange that yourself. And send an¬ 
other fellow up to the employment offices on 
Fourth Avenue and have him locate this cook, 
Bridget Fallon. I want her finger-prints, too. 
Perhaps she had better be detained, for I don’t 
want her to get away. Oh, and say, O’Connor, 
do you want to finish this case up like the crack 
of a whip to-night?” 

“I’m game, sir. What of it?” 

“Let me see. It is now four o’clock. If you 
can get hold of all these people in time I think I 
shall be ready-for the final scene to-night—say, 
at nine. You know how to arrange it. Have 
them all present at my laboratory at nine, and I 


BACTERIOLOGICAL DETECTIVE 83 

promise we shall have a story that will get into 
the morning papers with leaded type on the front 
page . 7 ’ 

“Now, Walter/’ he added, as we hurried down 
to the taxicab again, “I want yon to drop off at 
the Department of Health with this card to the 
commissioner. I believe yon know Dr. Leslie. 
Well, ask him if he knows anything about this 
Bridget Fallon. I will go on np-town to the labo¬ 
ratory and get my apparatus ready. You needn’t 
come up till nine, old fellow, for I shall be busy 
till then, but be sure when you come that you 
bring the record of this Fallon woman if you have 
to beg, borrow, or steal it.” 

I didn’t understand it, but I took the card and 
obeyed implicitly. It is needless to say that I 
was keyed up to the greatest pitch of excitement 
during my interview with the health commis¬ 
sioner, when I finally got in to see him. I hadn’t 
talked to him long before a great light struck 
me, and I began to see what Craig was driving at. 
The commissioner saw it first. 

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Jameson,” he said, 
after I had told him as much of my story as I 
could, “will you call up Professor Kennedy and 
tell him I’d like very much to be present to-night 
myself!” 

“Certainly I will,” I replied, glad to get my 
errand done in first-class fashion in that way. 

Things must have been running smoothly, for 


84 


THE SILENT BULLET 


while I was sitting in onr apartment after dinner, 
impatiently waiting for half-past eight, when the 
commissioner had promised to call for me and go 
up to the laboratory, the telephone rang. It was 
Craig. 

“Walter, might I ask a favour of yon?” he 
said. “When the commissioner comes ask him 
to stop at the Louis Quinze and bring Miss Bisbee 
up, too. Tell her it is important. No more now. 
Things are going ahead fine.” 

Promptly at nine we were assembled, a curious 
crowd. The health commissioner' and the in¬ 
spector, being members of the same political 
party, greeted each other by their first names. 
Miss Bisbee was nervous, Bridget was abusive, 
Denny was sullen. As for Kennedy, he was, as 
usual, as cool as a lump of ice. And I—well, I 
just sat on my feelings to keep myself quiet. 

At one end of the room" Craig had placed a 
large white sheet such as he used in his stereopti- 
con lectures, while at the top of the tier of seats 
that made a sort of little amphitheatre out of his 
lecture-room his stereopticon sputtered. 

“Moving pictures to-night, eh?” said Inspector 
0 ’Connor. 

“Not exactly,” said Craig, “though—-yes, they 
will be moving in another sense. Now, if we are 
all ready, I’ll switch off the electric lights.” 

The calcium sputtered some more, and a square 
of light was thrown on the sheet. 


BACTERIOLOGICAL DETECTIVE 85 

Kennedy snapped a little announcer sucti as 
lecturers use. “Let me invite your attention to 
these enlargements of finger-prints/’ he began, 
as a huge thumb appeared on the screen. “Here 
we have a series of finger-prints which I will show 
one after another slowly. They are all of the 
fingers of the same person, and they were found 
on some empty bottles of spring water used at 
Bisbee Hall during the two weeks previous to the 
departure of Mr. Bisbee for New York. 

“Here are, in succession, the finger-prints of 
the various servants employed about the house— 
and of a guest,” added Craig, with a slight change 
of tone. “They differ markedly from the finger¬ 
prints on the glass,” he continued, as one after 
another appeared, “all except this last one. 
That is identical. It is, Inspector, what we call 
a composite type of finger-print—in this case a 
combination of what is called the ‘loop’ and 
‘whorl’ types.” 

No sound broke the stillness save the sputter¬ 
ing of the oxygen on the calcium of the stereopti- 
con. 

“The owner of the fingers from which these 
prints were made is in this room. It was from 
typhoid germs on these fingers that the fever was 
introduced into the drinking water at Bisbee 
Hall.” 

Kennedy paused to emphasise the statement, 
then continued. 


86 THE SILENT BULLET 

“I am now going to ask Dr. Leslie to give ns 
a little talk on a recent discovery in the field of 
typhoid fever—you understand, Commissioner, 
what I mean, I believe ?” 

“Perfectly. Shall I mention names?” 

“No, not yet.” 

“Well,” began Dr. Leslie, clearing his throat, 
“within the past year or two we have made a 
most weird and startling discovery in typhoid fe¬ 
ver. We have found what we now call ‘typhoid 
carriers’—persons who do not have the disease 
themselves, perhaps never have had it, but who are 
literally living test-tubes of the typhoid bacillus. 
It is positively uncanny. Everywhere they go 
they scatter the disease. Down at the depart¬ 
ment we have the records of a number of such in¬ 
stances, and our men in the/research laboratories 
have come to the conclusion that, far from being 
of rare occurrence, these cases are compara¬ 
tively common. I have in mind one particular 
case of a servant girl, who, during the past five 
or six years, has been employed in several fam¬ 
ilies. 

“In every family typhoid fever has later broken 
out. Experts have traced out at least thirty 
cases and several deaths due to this one person. 
In another case we found an epidemic up in Har¬ 
lem to be due to a typhoid carrier on a remote 
farm in Connecticut. This carrier, innocently 
enough, it is true, contaminated the milk-supply 


BACTERIOLOGICAL DETECTIVE 87 

coming from tliat farm. The result was over 
fifty cases of typhoid here in this city. 

“However, to return to the case of the servant 
I have mentioned. Last spring we had her under 
snrveillance, hut as there was no law by which we 
could restrain her permanently she is still at 
large. I think one of the Sunday papers at the 
time had an account of her—they called her ‘Ty¬ 
phoid Bridget,’ and in red ink she was drawn 
across the page in gruesome fashion, frying the 
skulls of her victims in a frying-pan over a roar¬ 
ing fire. That particular typhoid carrier, I un¬ 
derstand—” 

“Excuse me, Commissioner, if I interrupt, hut 
I think we have carried this part of the pro¬ 
gramme far enough to be absolutely convincing,” 
said Craig. ‘ ‘ Thank you very much for the clear 
way in which you have put it. ’ ’ 

Craig snapped the announcer, and a letter ap¬ 
peared on the screen. He said nothing, but let 
us read it through: 

To whom it may concern: 

This is to certify that Bridget Fallon has been em¬ 
ployed in my family at Shelter Island for the past sea¬ 
son and that I have found her a reliable servant and an 
excellent cook. 

A. St. John Caswell-Jones. 

“Before God, Mr. Kennedy, I’m innocent,” 
screeched Bridget. “Don’t have me arrested. 
I’m innocent. I’m innocent.” 


88 THE SILENT BULLET 

Craig gently, but firmly, forced her back into 
her chair. 

Again the announcer snapped. This time the 
last page of Mr. Bisbee’s will appeared on the 
sheet, ending with his signature and the wit¬ 
nesses. 

“I’m now going to show these two specimens 
of handwriting very greatly enlarged,” he said, 
as the stereopticon plates were shifted again. 

“An author of many scientific works, Dr. Lind¬ 
say Johnson, of London, has recently elaborated 
a new theory with regard to individuality in hand¬ 
writing. He maintains that in certain diseases 
a person’s pulse beats are individual, and that no 
one suffering from any such disease can control, 
even for a brief space of time, the frequency or 
peculiar irregularities of his heart’s action, as 
shown by a chart recording his pulsation. Such 
a chart is obtained for medical purposes by means 
of a sphygmograph, an instrument fitted to the 
patient’s forearm and supplied with a needle, 
which can be so arranged as to record automati¬ 
cally on a prepared sheet of paper the peculiar 
force and frequency of the pulsation. Or the 
pulsation may be simply observed in the rise and 
fall of a liquid in a tube. Dr. Johnson holds the 
opinion that a pen in the hand of a writer serves^ 
in a modified degree, the same end as the needle 
in the first-named form of the sphygmograph and 
that in such a person’s handwriting one can see 


BACTERIOLOGICAL DETECTIVE 89 

by projecting the letters, greatly magnified, on a 
screen, the scarcely perceptible turns and quivers 
made in the lines by the spontaneous action of 
that person’s peculiar pulsation. 

“To prove this, the doctor carried out an ex¬ 
periment at Charing Cross Hospital. At his re¬ 
quest a number of patients suffering from heart 
and kidney diseases wrote the Lord’s Prayer in 
their ordinary handwriting. The different manu¬ 
scripts were then taken and examined microscopi¬ 
cally. By throwing them, highly magnified, on 
a screen, the jerks or involuntary motions due to 
the patient’s peculiar pulsations were distinctly 
visible. The handwriting of persons in normal 
health, says Dr. Johnson, does not always show 
their pulse beats. What one can say, however, 
is that when a document, purporting to be written 
by a certain person, contains traces of pulse beats 
and the normal handwriting of that person does 
not show them, then clearly that document is a 
forgery. 

“Now, in these two specimens of handwriting 
which we have enlarged it is plain that the writers 
of both of them suffered from a certain peculiar 
disease of the heart. Moreover, I am prepared 
to show that the pulse beats exhibited in the case 
of certain pen-strokes in one of these documents 
are exhibited in similar strokes in the other. 
Furthermore, I have ascertained from his family 
physician, whose affidavit I have here, that Mr. 


90 THE SILENT BULLET 

Bisbee did not suffer from this or any other form 
of heart disease. Mr. Caswell-Jones, in addition 
to wiring me that he refused to write Bridget 
, Fallon a recommendation after the typhoid broke 
out in his country house, also says he does not 
suffer from heart disease in any form. From the 
tremulous character of the letters and figures in 
both these documents, which when magnified is 
the more easily detected, I therefore conclude 
that both are forgeries, and I am ready to go 
farther and say that they are forgeries from the 
same hand. 

“It usually takes a couple of weeks after in¬ 
fection for typhoid to develop, a time sufficient in 
itself to remove suspicion from acts which might 
otherwise be scrutinised very carefully if happen¬ 
ing immediately before the disease developed. 
I may add, also, that it is well known that stout 
people do very poorly when they contract typhoid, 
especially if they are old. Mr. Bisbee was both 
stout and old. To contract typhoid was for him 
a virtual death-warrant. Knowing all these 
facts, a certain person purposely sought out a 
crafty means of introducing typhoid fever into 
Mr. Bisbee’s family. That person, furthermore, 
was inoculated against typhoid three times dur¬ 
ing the month before the disease was devilishly 
and surreptitiously introduced into Bisbee Hall, 
in order to protect himself or herself should it 
become necessary for that person to visit Bisbee 


BACTERIOLOGICAL DETECTIVE 91 

Hall. That person, I believe, is the one who suf¬ 
fered from an aneurism of the heart, the writer, 
or rather the forger, of the two documents I have 
shown, by one of which he or she was to profit 
greatly by the death of Mr. Bisbee and the found¬ 
ing of an alleged school in a distant part of the 
country—a subterfuge, if you recall, used in at 
least one famous case for which the convicted per¬ 
petrator is now under a life sentence in Sing Sing. 

“I will ask Dr. Leslie to take this stethoscope 
and examine the hearts of everyone in the room 
and tell me whether there is anyone here suffer¬ 
ing from an aneurism.” 

The calcium light ceased to sputter. One per¬ 
son after another was examined by the health 
commissioner. Was it merely my imagination, 
or did I really hear a heart beating with wild 
leaps as if it would burst the bonds of its prison 
and make its escape if possible? Perhaps it was 
only the engine of the commissioner’s machine 
out on the campus driveway. I don’t know. At 
any rate, he went silently from one to the other, 
betraying not even by his actions what he dis¬ 
covered with the stethoscope. The suspense was 
terrible. I felt Miss Bisbee’s hand involuntarily 
grasp my arm convulsively. Without disturbing 
the silence, I reached a glass of water standing 
near me on Craig’s lecture-table and handed it 
to her. 

The commissioner was bending over the 


92 THE SILENT BULLET 

lawyer, trying to adjust the stethoscope better to 
his ears. The lawyer’s head was resting heavily 
on his hand, and he was heaped up in an awkward 
position in the cramped lecture-room seat. It 
seemed an age as Dr. Leslie tried to adjust the 
stethoscope. Even Craig felt the excitement. 
While the commissioner hesitated, Kennedy 
reached over and impatiently switched on the elec¬ 
tric light in full force. 

As the light flooded the room, blinding us for 
the instant, the large form of Dr. Le’slie stood be¬ 
tween us and the lawyer. 

“What does the stethoscope tell you, Doctor V 9 
asked Craig, leaning forward expectantly. He 
was as unprepared for the answer as any of us. 

“It tells me that a higher court than those of 
New York has passed judgment on this astound¬ 
ing criminal. The aneurism has burst.” 

I felt a soft weight fall on my shoulder. The 
morning Star did not have the story, after all. I 
missed the greatest “scoop” of my life seeing 
Eveline Bisbee safely to her home after she had 
recovered from the shock of Denny’s exposure 
and punishment. 


IV 


THE DEADLY TUBE 

“For Heaven’s sake, Gregory, what is the mat¬ 
ter?” asked Craig Kennedy as a tall, nervous 
man stalked into our apartment one evening. 
“Jameson, shake hands with Dr. Gregory. 
What’s the matter, Doctor? Surely your X-ray 
work hasn’t knocked you out like this?” 

The doctor shook hands with me mechanically. 
His hand was icy. “The blow has fallen,” he ex¬ 
claimed, as he sank limply into a chair and tossed 
an evening paper over to Kennedy. 

In red ink on the first page, in the little square 
headed “Latest News,” Kennedy read the cap¬ 
tion, “Society Woman Crippled for Life by X- 
Eay Treatment.” 

“A terrible tragedy was revealed in the suit 
begun to-day,” continued the article, “by Mrs. 
Huntington Close against Dr. James Gregory, 

an X-ray specialist with offices at-Madison 

Avenue, to recover damages for injuries which 
Mrs. Close alleges she received while under his 
care. Several months ago she began a course of 
X-ray treatment to remove a birthmark on her 
neck. In her complaint Mrs. Close alleges that 
Dr. Gregory has carelessly caused X-ray derma- 
93 



94 THE SILENT BULLET 

titis, a skin disease of cancerous nature, and that 
she has also been rendered a nervous wreck 
through the effects of the rays. Simultaneously 
with filing the suit she left home and entered a 
private hospital. Mrs. Close is one of the most 
popular hostesses in the smart set, and her loss 
will be keenly felt.” 

‘ 4 What am I to do, Kennedy?” asked the doc¬ 
tor imploringly. “You remember I told you the 
other day about this case—that there was some¬ 
thing queer about it, that after a few treatments 
I was afraid to carry on any more and refused to 
do so? She really has dermatitis and nervous 
prostration, exactly as,. she alleges in her com¬ 
plaint. But, before Heaven, Kennedy, I can’t 
see how she could possibly have been so affected 
by the few treatments I gave her. And to-night, 
just as I was leaving the office, I received a tele¬ 
phone call from her husband’s attorney, 
Lawrence, very kindly informing me that the case 
would be pushed to the limit. I tell you, it looks 
black for me.” 

“What can they do?” 

“Do? Do you suppose any jury is going to 
take enough expert testimony to outweigh the 
tragedy of a beautiful woman? Do? Why, they 
can ruin me, even if I get a verdict of acquittal. 
They can leave me with a reputation for careless¬ 
ness that no mere court decision can ever over¬ 
come.” 


THE DEADLY TUBE 95 

“Gregory, yon can rely on me,” said Kennedy. 
“Anything I can do to help yon I will gladly do. 
Jameson and I were on the point of going out to 
dinner. Join ns, and after that we will go down 
to yonr office and talk things over.” 

“Yon are really too kind,” mnrmnred the doc¬ 
tor. The air of relief that was written on his 
face was pathetically eloquent. 

“Now not a word about the case till we have 
had dinner,” commanded Craig. “I see very 
plainly that you have been worrying about the 
blow for a long time. Well, it has fallen. The 
next thing to do is to look over the situation and 
see where we stand.” 

Dinner over, we rode down-town in the subway, 
and Gregory ushered us into an office-building 
on Madison Avenue, where he had a very hand¬ 
some suite of several rooms. We sat down in his 
waiting-room to discuss the affair. 

“It is indeed a very tragic case,” began Ken¬ 
nedy, “almost more tragic than if the victim had 
been killed outright. Mrs. Huntington Close is 
—or rather I suppose I should say was—one of 
the famous beauties of the city. From what the 
paper says, her beauty has been hopelessly ruined 
by this dermatitis, which, I understand, Doctor, 
is practically incurable.” 

Dr. Gregory nodded, and I could not help fol¬ 
lowing his eyes as he looked at his own rough and 
scarred hands. 


96 


THE SILENT BULLET 

“Also,” continued Craig, with his eyes half 
closed and his finger-tips together, as if he were 
taking a mental inventory of the facts in the case, 
“her nerves are so shattered that she will be 
years in recovering, if she ever recovers.’’ 

“Yes,” said the doctor simply. “I myself, for 
instance, am subject to the most unexpected at¬ 
tacks of neuritis. But, of course, I am under the 
influence of the rays fifty or sixty times a day, 
while she had only a few treatments at intervals 
of many days.” 

“Now, on the other hand,” resumed Craig, “I 
know you, Gregory, very well. Only the other 
day, before any of this came out, you told me the 
whole story with your fears as to the outcome. I 
know that that lawyer of Close’s has been keeping 
this thing hanging over your head for a long 
time. And I also know that you are one of the 
most careful X-ray operators in the city. If this 
suit goes against you, one of the most brilliant 
men of science in America will be ruined. Now, 
having said this much, let me ask you to describe 
just exactly what treatments you gave Mrs 
Close.” 

The doctor Jed us into his X-ray room adjoin¬ 
ing. A number of X-ray tubes were neatly put 
away in a great glass case, and at one end of the 
room was an operating-table with an X-ray ap¬ 
paratus suspended over it. A glance at the room 
showed that Kennedy’s praise was not exag¬ 
gerated. 


THE DEADLY TUBE 97 

“How many treatments did you give Mrs. 
Closer’ asked Kennedy. 

“Not over a dozen, I should say,” replied 
Gregory. “I have a record of them and the 
dates, which I will give you presently. Certainly 
they were not numerous enough or frequent 
enough to have caused a dermatitis such as she 
has. Besides, look here. I have an apparatus 
which, for safety to the patient, has few equals 
in the country. This big lead-glass howl, which 
is placed over my X-ray tube when in use, cuts otf 
the rays at every point except exactly where they 
are needed.” 

He switched on the electric current, and the ap¬ 
paratus began to sputter. The pungent odour of 
ozone from the electric discharge filled the room. 
Through the lead-glass bowl I could see the X-ray 
tube inside suffused with its peculiar, yellowish- 
green light, divided into two hemispheres of dif¬ 
ferent shades. That, I knew, was the cathode 
ray, not the X-ray, for the X-ray itself, which 
streams outside the tube, is invisible to the human 
eye. The doctor placed in our hands a couple of 
fluoroscopes, an apparatus by which X-rays can be 
detected. It consists simply of a closed box with 
an opening to which the eyes are placed. The 
opposite end of the box is a piece of board coated 
with a salt such as platino-barium cyanide. 
When the X-ray strikes this salt it makes it glow, 
or fluoresce, and objects held between the X-ray 
tube and the fluoroscope cast shadows according 


98 THE SILENT BULLET 

to the density of the parts which the X-rays pene¬ 
trate. 

With the lead-glass bowl removed, the X-ray 
tube sent forth its wonderful invisible radiation 
and made the back of the fluoroscope glow with 
light. I could see the bones of my fingers as I held 
them up between the X-ray tube and the fluoro¬ 
scope. But with the lead-glass bowl in position 
over the tube, the fluoroscope was simply a black 
box into which I looked and saw nothing. So 
very little of the radiation escaped from the bowl 
that it was negligible—except at one point where 
there was an opening in the bottom of the bowl 
to allow the rays to pass freely through exactly 
on the spot on the patient where they were to be 
used. 

“The dermatitis, they say, has appeared all 
over her body, particularly on her head and 
shoulders,” added Dr. Gregory. “Now I have 
shown you my apparatus to impress on you how 
really impossible it would have been for her to 
contract it from her treatments here. I’ve made 
thousands of exposures with never an X-ray burn 
before—except to myself. As for myself, I’m as 
careful as I can be, but you can see I am under 
the rays very often, while the patient is only 
under them once in a while.” 

To illustrate his care he pointed out to us a 
cabinet directly back of the operating-table, lined 
with thick sheets of lead. From this cabinet he 


99 


THE DEADLY TUBE 

conducted most of his treatments as far as pos¬ 
sible. A little peep-hole enabled him to see the 
patient and the X-ray apparatus, while an ar¬ 
rangement of mirrors and a fluorescent screen en¬ 
abled him to see exactly what the X-rays were 
disclosing, without his leaving the lead-lined cab¬ 
inet. 

“I can think of no more perfect protection for 
either patient or operator,” said Kennedy ad¬ 
miringly. “By the way, did Mrs. Close come 
alone?” 

“No, the first time Mr. Close came with 
her. After that, she came with her French 
maid.” 

The next day we paid a visit to Mrs. Close her¬ 
self at the private hospital. Kennedy had been 
casting about in his mind for an excuse to see her, 
and I had suggested that we go as reporters from 
the Star . Fortunately after sending up my card 
on which I had written Craig’s name we were at 
length allowed to go up to her room. 

We found the patient reclining in an easy 
chair, swathed in bandages, a wreck of her 
former self. I felt the tragedy keenly. All that 
social position and beauty had meant to her had 
been suddenly blasted. 

“You will pardon my presumption,” began 
Craig, “but, Mrs. Close, I assure you that I am 
actuated by the best of motives. We represent 
the New York Star —” 



100 


THE SILENT BULLET 


“Isn’t it terrible enough, that I should suffer 
so,” she interrupted, “but must the newspapers 
hound me, too?” 

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Close,” said Craig, 
“but you must be aware that the news of your 
suit of Dr. Gregory has now become public prop¬ 
erty. I couldn’t stop the Star, much less the 
other papers, from talking about it. But I can 
and will do this, Mrs. Close. I will see that jus¬ 
tice is done to you and all others concerned. Be¬ 
lieve me, I am not here as a yellow journalist to 
make newspaper copy out of your misfortune. 
I am here to get at the truth sympathetically. 
Incidentally, I may be able to render you a serv¬ 
ice, too.” 

“You can render me no service except to ex¬ 
pedite the suit against that careless doctor—I 
hate him.” 

“Perhaps,” said Craig. “But suppose some¬ 
one else should be proved to have been really 
responsible? Would you still want to press the 
suit and let the guilty person escape?” 

She bit her lip. “What is it you want of me?” 
she asked. 

“I merely want permission to visit your rooms 
at your home and to talk with your maid. I do 
not mean to spy on you, far from it; but consider, 
Mrs. Close, if I should be able to get at the bot¬ 
tom of this thing, find out the real cause of your 
misfortune, perhaps show that you are the victim 



IDLY TUBE 101 

Ul et ci uci vvxGiig rather than of carelessness, 
would you not be willing to let me go ahead! I 
am frank to tell you that I suspect there is more 
to this affair than you yourself have any idea of.” 

“No, you are mistaken, Mr. Kennedy. I know 
the cause of it. It was my love of beauty. I 
couldn’t resist the temptation to get rid of even a 
slight defect. If I had left well enough alone I 
should not be here now. A friend recommended 
Dr. Gregory to my husband, who took me there. 
My husband wishes me to remain at home, but I 
tell him I feel more comfortable here in the hos¬ 
pital* I shall never go to that house again—the 
memory of the torture of sleepless nights in my 
room there when I felt my good looks going, 
going”—she shuddered—“is such that I can 
never forget it. He says I would be better off 
there, but no, I cannot go. Still,” she continued 
wearily, “there can be no harm in your talking to 
my maid.” 

Kennedy noted attentively what she was say¬ 
ing. “I thank you, Mrs. Close,” he replied. “I 
am sure you will not regret your permission. 
Would you be so kind as to give me a note to 
her! ’’ 

She rang, dictated a short note to a nurse, 
signed it, and languidly dismissed us. 

I don’t know that I ever felt as depressed as I 
did after that interview with one who had en¬ 
tered a living death to ambition, for while Craig 


102 THE SILENT BULLET 

had done all the talking I had absorbed nothing 
but depression. I vowed that if Gregory or any¬ 
body else was responsible I would do my share 
toward bringing on him retribution. 

The Closes lived in a splendid big house in the 
Murray Hill section. The presentation of the 
note quickly brought Mrs. Close’s, maid down to 
us. She had not gone to the hospital because 
Mrs. Close had considered the services of the 
trained nurses quite sufficient. 

Yes, the maid had noticed how her mistress 
had been failing, had noticed it long ago, in fact 
almost at the time when she had begun the X-ray 
treatment. She had seemed to improve once 
when she went away for a few days, but that was 
at the start, and directly after her return she 
grew worse again, until she was no longer her¬ 
self. 

4 'Did Dr. Gregory, the X-ray specialist, ever 
attend Mrs. Close at her home, in her room!” 
asked Craig. 

"Yes, once, twice, he call, but he do no good,” 
she said with her French accent. 

"Did Mrs. Close have other callers!” 

"But, m’sieur, everyone in society has many. 
What does m’sieur mean!” 

"Frequent callers—a Mr. Lawrence, for in¬ 
stance!” 

"Oh, yes, Mr. Lawrence frequently.” 

"When Mr. Close was at home!” 


THE DEADLY TUBE 


103 


“Yes, on business and on business, too, when 
be was not at borne. He is tbe attorney, 
m’sieur.” 

“How did Mrs. Close receive him?” 

“He is tbe attorney, m’sieur,” Marie repeated 
persistently. 

“And be, did be always call on business?” 

“Ob, yes, always on business, but—well, 
madame, sbe was a very beautiful woman. Per¬ 
haps be like beautiful women —eh bienl That 
was before tbe Doctor Gregory treated madame. 
After the doctor treated madame M ’sieur 
Lawrence do not call so often. That’s all.” 

“Are you thoroughly devoted to Mrs. Close? 
Would you do a favour for her?” asked Craig 
pointblank. 

“Sir, I would give my life, almost, for madame, 
Sbe was always so good to me.” 

“I don’t ask you to give your life for her, 
Marie,” said Craig, “but you can do her a great 
service, a very great service.” 

“I will do it.” 

“To-night,” said Craig, “I want you to sleep 
in Mrs. Close’s room. You can do so, for I know 
that Mr. Close is living at tbe St. Francis Club 
until bis wife returns from tbe sanitarium. To¬ 
morrow morning come to my laboratory”—Craig 
banded her bis card—“and I will tell you what 
to do next. By tbe way, don’t say anything to 
anyone in the bouse about it, and keep a sharp 


THE SILENT BULLET 


104 1 

watch on the actions of any of the servants who 
may go into Mrs. Close’s room.” 

“Well,” said Craig, “there is nothing more 
to be done immediately.” We had once more re¬ 
gained the street and were walking np-town. We 
walked in silence for several blocks. 

“Yes,” mused Craig, “there is something yon 
can do, after all, Walter. I would like you to 
look up Gregory and Close and Lawrence. I al¬ 
ready know something about them. But you can 
find out a good deal with your newspaper connec¬ 
tions. I would like to have every bit of scandal 
that has ever been connected with them, or with 
Mrs. Close, or,” he added significantly, “with 
any other woman. It isn’t necessary to say that 
not a breath of it must be published—yet.” 

I found a good deal of gossip, but very little 
of it, indeed, seemed to me at the time to be of 
importance. Dropping in at the St. Francis 
Club, where I had some friends, I casually men¬ 
tioned the troubles of the Huntington Closes. I 
was surprised to learn that Close spent little of 
his time at the Club, none at home, and only 
dropped into the hospital to make formal inquir¬ 
ies as to his wife’s condition. It then occurred 
to me to drop into the office of Society Squibs , 
whose editor I had long known. The editor told 
me, with that nameless look of the cynical scan¬ 
dalmonger, that if I wanted to learn anything 
about Huntington Close I had best watch Mrs. 


THE DEADL 

Frances Tulkington, a verj _ di¬ 

vorcee about whom the smart set were much ex¬ 
cited, particularly those whose wealth made it 
difficult to stand the pace of society as it was 
going at present. 

“Arid before the tragedy,” said the editor with 
another nameless look, as if he were imparting a 
most valuable piece of gossip, “it was the talk of 
the town, the attention that Close’s lawyer was 
paying to Mrs. Close. But to her credit let me 
say that she never gave us a chance to hint at 
anything, and—well, you know us; we don’t need 
much to make snappy society news.” 

The editor then waxed even more confidential, 
for if I am anything at all, I am a good listener, 
and I have found that often by sitting tight and 
listening I can get more than if I were a too- 
eager questioner. 

“It really was a shame the way that man 
Lawrence played his game,” he went on. “I 
understand that it was he who introduced Close 
to Mrs. T. They were both his clients. 
Lawrence had fought her case in the courts when 
she sued old Tulkington for divorce, and a hand¬ 
some settlement he got for her, too. They say 
his fee ran up into the hundred thousands—con¬ 
tingent, you know. I don’t know what his game 
was”—here he lowered his voice to a whisper— 
“but they say Close owes him a good deal of 
money. You can figure it out for yourself as you 


106 THE SILENT BULLET 

like. Now, I’ve told you all I know. Come in 
again, Jameson, when you want some more scan¬ 
dal, and remember me to the boys down on the 
Starr 

The following day the maid visited Kennedy 
at his laboratory while I was reporting to him on 
the result of my investigations. 

She looked worn and haggard. She had spent 
a sleepless night and begged that Kennedy would 
not ask her to repeat the experiment. 

“I can promise you, Marie/’ he said, “that 
you will rest better to-night. But you must 
spend one more night in Mrs. Close’s room. By 
the way, can you arrange for me to go through 
the room this morning when you go back?” 

Marie said she could, and an hour or so later. 
Craig and I quietly slipped into the Close resi¬ 
dence under her guidance. He was carrying 
something that looked like a miniature barrel, 
and I had another package which' he had given 
me, both carefully wrapped up. The butler eyed 
us suspiciously, but Marie spoke a few words to 
him and I think showed him Mrs. Close’s note. 
Anyhow he said nothing. 

Within the room that the unfortunate woman 
had occupied Kennedy took the coverings off the 
packages. It was nothing but a portable electric 
vacuum cleaner, which he quickly attached and 
set running. Up and down the floor, around and 
under the bed he pushed the cleaner. He used 


THE DEADLY TUBE 

the various attachments to clean the , *a.in 
walls, and even the furniture. Particularly aid 
he pay attention to the base board on the wall 
back of the bed. Then he carefully removed the 
dust from the cleaner and sealed it up in a leaden 
box. 

He was about to detach and pack up the cleaner 
When another idea seemed to occur to him. 
“Might as well make a thorough job of it, Wab 
ter,” he said, adjusting the apparatus again. 
“I’ve cleaned everything but the mattress and 
the brass bars behind the mattress on the bed. 
Now I’ll tackle them. I think we ought to go into 
the suction-cleaning business—more money in it 
than in being a detective, I’ll bet.” 

The cleaner was run over and under the mat¬ 
tress and along every crack and cranny of the 
brass bed. This done and this dust also care¬ 
fully stowed away, we departed, very much to the 
mystification of Marie and, I could not help feel¬ 
ing, of other eyes that peered in through keyholes 
or cracks in doors. 

“At any rate,” said Kennedy exultingly, “I 
think we have stolen a march on them. I don’t 
believe they were prepared for this, not at least 
at this stage in the game. Don’t ask me any 
questions, Walter. Then you will have no secrets 
to keep if anyone should try to pry them loose. 
Only remember that this man Lawrence is a 
shrewd character.” 


108 


THE SILENT BULLET 


The next day Marie came, looking 1 even more 
careworn than before. 

“What’s the matter, mademoiselle?” asked 
Craig. “Didn’t you pass a better night?” 

“Oh, mon Dieu, I rest well, yes. But this 
morning, while I am at breakfast, Mr. Close send 
for me. He say that I am discharged. Some 
servant tell of your visit and he ver-ry angr-ry. 
And now what is to become of me—will madame 
his wife give a recommendation now?” 

“Walter, we have been discovered,” exclaimed 
Craig with considerable vexation. Then he re¬ 
membered the poor girl who had been an involun¬ 
tary sacrifice to our investigation. Turning to 
her he said: “Marie, I know several very good 
families, and I am sure you will not suffer for 
what you have done by being faithful to your mis¬ 
tress. Only be patient a few days. Go live with 
some of your folks. I will see that you are 
placed again.” 

The girl was profuse in her thanks as she dried 
her tears and departed. 

“I hadn’t anticipated having my hand forced 
so soon,” said Craig after she had gone, leaving 
her address. “However, we are on the right 
track. What was it that you were going to tell 
me when Marie came in?” 

“Something that may be very important, 
Craig,” I said, “though I don’t understand it my¬ 
self. Pressure is being brought to bear on the 


THE 


9 

Star to keep this imxig uui of ihe papers, ux at 
least to minimise it..” 

“Pm not surprised,’ ’ commented Craig. 
< 4 What do you mean by pressure being brought V r 

“Why, Close’s lawyer, Lawrence, called up the 
editor this morning—I don’t suppose that you 
know, but he has some connection with the inter¬ 
ests which control the Star —and said that the ac¬ 
tivity of one of , the reporters from the Star, 
Jameson by name, was very distasteful to Mr. 
Close and that this reporter was employing a man 
named Kennedy to assist him. 

“I don’t understand it, Craig,” I confessed, 
“but here one day they give the news to the 
papers, and two days later they almost threaten 
us with suit if we don’t stop publishing it.” 

“It is perplexing,” said Craig, with the air of 
one who was not a bit perplexed, but rather en¬ 
lightened. 

He pulled down the district telegraph messen¬ 
ger lever three times, and we sat in silence for a 
while. 

“However,” he resumed, “I shall be ready for 
them to-night.” 

I said nothing. Several minutes elapsed. 
Then the messenger rapped on the door. 

“I want these two notes delivered right away,” 
said Craig to the boy; “here’s a quarter for you. 
Now mind you don’t get interested in a detective 
story and forget the notes. If you are back here 


110 THE SILENT BULLET 

quickly with the receipts I’ll give you another 
quarter. Now scurry along.” 

Then, after the boy had gone, he said casually 
to me: i ‘Two notes to Close and Gregory, asking 
them to be present with their attorneys to-night. 
Close will bring Lawrence, and Gregory will 
bring a young lawyer named Asche, a very clever 
fellow. The notes are so worded that they can 
hardly refuse the invitation.” 

Meanwhile I carried out an assignment for the 
Star, and telephoned my story in so as to be sure 
of being with Craig at the crucial moment. For 
I was thoroughly curious about his next move in 
the game. I found him still in his laboratory at¬ 
taching two coils of thin wire to the connections 
on the outside of a queer-looking little black box. 

“What’s that?” I asked, eyeing the sinister- 
looking little box suspiciously. “An infernal ma¬ 
chine?' You’re not going to blow the culprit into 
eternity, I hope. ’ ’ 

“Never mind what it is, Walter. You’ll find 
that out in due time. It may or it may not be an 
infernal machine—of a different sort than any 
you have probably ever heard of. The less you 
know now the less likely you are to give anything 
away by a look or an act. Come now, make 
yourself useful as well as ornamental. Take 
these wires and lay them in the cracks of the floor, 
and be careful not to let them show. A little 
dust over them will conceal them beautifully.” 


thf: 


Craig now placed tiie biacK box uack ojl 
tlie chairs well down toward the floor, where it 
could hardly have been perceived unless one were 
suspecting something of the sort. While he was 
doing so I ran the wires across the floor, and 
around the edge of the room to the door. 

4 ‘There,” he said, taking the wires from me. 
“Now I’ll complete the job by carrying them into 
the next room. And while I’m doing it, go over 
the wires again and make sure they are abso¬ 
lutely concealed.” 

That night six men gathered in Kennedy’s lab¬ 
oratory. In my utter ignorance of what was 
about to happen I was perfectly calm, and so were 
all the rest, except Gregory. He was easily the 
most nervous of us all, though his lawyer Asche 
tried repeatedly to reassure him. 

“Mr. Close,” began Kennedy, “if you and Mr. 
Lawrence will sit over here on this side of the 
room while Dr. Gregory and Mr. Asche sit on the 
opposite side with Mr. Jameson in the middle, I 
think both of you opposing parties will be better 
suited. For I apprehend that at various stages 
in what I am about to say both you, Mr. Close, 
and you, Dr. Gregory, will want to consult your 
attorneys. That, of course, would he embarrass¬ 
ing, if not impossible, should you he sitting near 
each other. Now, if we are ready, I shall begin.” 

Kennedy placed a small leaden casket on the 
table of his lecture hall. “In this casket,” he 


112 THE SILENT BULLET 

commenced solemnly, “ there is a certain sub¬ 
stance which I have recovered from the dust 
swept up by a vacuum cleaner in the room of Mrs* 
Close.” 

One could feel the very air of the room sur¬ 
charged with excitement. Craig drew on a pair 
of gloves and carefully opened the casket. With 
his thumb and forefinger he lifted out a glass tube 
and held it gingerly at arm’s length. My eyes 
were riveted on it, for the bottom of the tube 
glowed with a dazzling point of light. 

Both Gregory and his attorney and Close and: 
Lawrence whispered to each other when the tube 
was displayed, as indeed they did throughout the 
whole exhibition of Kennedy’s evidence. 

“No infernal machine was ever more subtle,” 
said Craig, “than the tube which I hold in my 
hand. The imagination of the most sensational 
writer of fiction might well be thrilled with the 
mysteries of this fatal tube and its power to work 
fearful deeds. A larger quantity of this sub¬ 
stance in the tube would produce on me, as I now 
hold it, incurable burns, just as it did on its dis¬ 
coverer before his death. A smaller amount, of 
course, would not act so quickly. The amount in 
this tube, if distributed about, would produce the 
burns inevitably, providing I remained near 
enough for a long-enough time.” 

Craig paused a moment to emphasise his re¬ 
marks. 


THE DEADLY 

“Here in my hand, gentleme-, ^ xium me price) 
of a woman’s beauty.” 

He stopped again for several moments, then re¬ 
sumed. 

“And now, having shown it to you, for my own 
safety I will place it hack in its leaden casket.” 

Drawing off his gloves, he proceeded. 

“I have found out by a cablegram to-day that 
seven weeks ago an order for one hundred milli¬ 
grams of radium bromide at thirty-five dollars 
a milligram from a certain person in America 
was filled by a corporation dealing in this sub¬ 
stance.” 

Kennedy said this with measured words, and I 
felt a thrill run through me as he developed his 
case. 

“At that same time, Mrs. Close began a se¬ 
ries of treatments with an X-ray specialist in 
Hew York,” pursued Kennedy. “Now, it is not 
generally known outside scientific circles, but the 
fact is that in their physiological effects the 
X-ray and radium are quite one and the same. 
Kadium possesses this advantage, however, that 
no elaborate apparatus is necessary for its use. 
And, in addition, the emanation from radium is 
steady and constant, whereas the X-ray at best 
varies slightly with changing conditions of the 
current and vacuum in the X-ray tube. Still, the 
effects on the body are much the same. 

“A few days before this order was placed I re- 


114 THE SILENT BULLET 

call the following despatch which appeared in the 
New York papers. I will read it: 

11 ‘ Liege, Belgium, Oct. —, 1910. What is believed 
to be the first criminal case in which radium figures as a 
death-dealing agent is engaging public attention at this 
university town. A wealthy old bachelor, Pailin b} 7- 
name, was found dead in his flat. A stroke of apoplexy 
was at first believed to have caused his death, but a close 
examination revealed a curious discolouration of his skin. 
A specialist called in to view the body gave as his opinion 
that the old man had been exposed for a long time to the 
emanations of X-ray or radium. The police theory is 
that M. Pailin was done to death by a systematic applica¬ 
tion of either X-rays or radium by a student in the uni¬ 
versity who roomed next to him. The student has dis¬ 
appeared/ 

“Now here, I believe, was the suggestion which 
this American criminal followed, for I cut it out 
of the paper rather expecting sooner or later that 
some clever person would act on it. I have 
thoroughly examined the room of Mrs. Close. 
She herself told me she never wanted to return 
to it, that her memory of sleepless nights in it 
was too vivid. That served to fix the impression 
that I had already formed from reading this clip¬ 
ping. Either the X-ray or radium had caused 
her dermatitis and nervousness. Which was it? 
I wished to be sure that I would make no mistake. 
Of course I knew it was useless to look for an 


THE DEA‘ 

X-ray machine in or near Mrs. Close’s room. 
Such a thing could never have been concealed. 
The alternative! Radium! Ah! that was differ¬ 
ent. I determined on an experiment. Mrs. 
Close’s maid was prevailed on to sleep in her mis¬ 
tress’s room. Of course radiations of brief du¬ 
ration would do her no permanent harm, although 
they would produce their effect, nevertheless. In 
one night the maid became extremely nervous. 
If she had stayed under them several nights no 
doubt the beginning of a dermatitis would have 
affected her, if not more serious trouble. A sys¬ 
tematic application, covering weeks and months, 
might in the end even have led to death. 

“The next day I managed, as I have said, to go 
over the room thoroughly with a vacuum cleaner 
—a new one of my own which I had bought my¬ 
self. But tests of the dust which I got from the 
floors, curtains, and furniture showed nothing at 
all. As a last thought I had, however, cleaned 
the mattress of the bed and the cracks and crev¬ 
ices in the brass bars. Tests of that dust showed 
it to be extremely radioactive. I had the dust 
dissolved, by a chemist who understands that sort 
of thing, recrystallised, and the radium salts were 
extracted from the refuse. Thus I found that I 
had recovered all but a very few milligrams of 
the radium that had been originally purchased in 
London, Here it is in this deadly tube in the 
leaden casket. 


116 THE SILENT BULLET 

“It is needless to add that the night after I had 
cleaned out this deadly element the maid slept 
the sleep of the just—and would have been all 
right when next I saw her hut for the interfer¬ 
ence of the unjust on whom I had stolen a 
march. ’’ 

Craig paused while the lawyers whispered 
again to their clients. Then he continued: “Now 
three persons in this room had an opportunity 
to secrete the contents of this deadly tube in the 
crevices of the metal work of Mrs. Close’s bed. 
One of these persons must have placed an order 
through a confidential agent in London to pur¬ 
chase the radium from the English Radium Cor¬ 
poration. One of these persons had a compelling 
motive, something to gain by using this deadly 
element. 

“The radium in this tube in the casket was 
secreted, as I have said, in the metal work of Mrs. 
Close’s bed, not in large enough quantities to be 
immediately fatal, but mixed with dust so as to 
produce the result more slowly but no less surely, 
and thus avoid suspicion. At the same time Mrs. 
Close was persuaded—I will not say by whom— 
through her natural pride, to take a course of 
X-ray treatment for a slight defect. That would 
further serve to divert suspicion. The fact is 
that a more horrible plot could hardly have been 
planned or executed. This person sought to ruin 


THE TUBE 

her beauty to gain a most selfish and despicable 
end. ’ ’ 

Again Craig paused to let his words sink into 
onr minds. 

u NowI wish to state that anything yon gentle¬ 
men may say will be used against you. That is 
why I have asked you to bring your attorneys. 
You may consult with them, of course, while I am 
getting ready my next disclosure.’’ 

As Kennedy had developed his points in the 
case I had been more and more amazed. But I 
had not failed to notice how keenly Lawrence was 
following him. 

With half a sneer on his astute face, Lawrence 
drawled: “I cannot see that you have accom¬ 
plished anything by this rather extraordinary 
summoning of us to your laboratory. The evi¬ 
dence is just as black against Dr. Gregory as be¬ 
fore. You may think you’re clever, Kennedy, 
but on the very statement of facts as you have 
brought them out there is plenty of circumstan¬ 
tial evidence against Gregory—more than there 
was before. As for anyone else in the room, I 
can’t see that you have anything on us—unless 
perhaps this new evidence you speak of may im¬ 
plicate Asche, or Jameson,” he added, including 
me in a wave of his hand, as if he were already 
addressing a jury. “It’s my opinion that twelve 
of our peers would be quite as likely to bring in a 


118 


THE SILENT BULLET 


verdict of guilty against them as against anyone 
else even remotely connected with this case, ex¬ 
cept Gregory. No, you’ll have to do better than 
this in your next case, if you expect to maintain 
that so-called reputation of yours for being a pro¬ 
fessor of criminal science.” 

As for Close, taking his cue from his attorney, 
he scornfully added: “I came to find out some 
new evidence against the wretch who wrecked the 
beauty of my wife. All I’ve got is a tiresome lec¬ 
ture on X-rays and radium. I suppose what you 
say is true. Well, it only bears out what I 
thought before. Gregory treated my wife at 
home, after he saw the damage his office treat¬ 
ments had done. I guess he was capable of mak¬ 
ing a complete job out of it—covering up his care¬ 
lessness by getting rid of the woman who was 
such a damning piece of evidence against his pro¬ 
fessional skill.” 

Never a shade passed Craig’s face as he listened 
to this tirade. “Excuse me a moment,” was all 
he said, opening the door to leave the room. “I 
have just one more fact to disclose. I will be 
back directly.” 

Kennedy was gone several minutes, during 
which Close and Lawrence fell to whispering be¬ 
hind their hands, with the assurance of those who 
believed that this was only Kennedy’s method of 
admitting a defeat. Gregory and Asche ex¬ 
changed a few words similarly, and it was plain 


THE DEADLY TUBE 119 

that Asche was endeavouring to put a better in¬ 
terpretation on something than Gregory hiftself 
dared hope. 

As Kennedy re-entered, Close was buttoning up 
his coat preparatory to leaving, and Lawrence 
was lighting a fresh cigar. 

In his hand Kennedy held a notebook. “My 
stenographer writes a very legible shorthand; at 
least I find it so—from long practice, I suppose. 
As I glance over her notes I find many facts which 
will interest you later—at the trial. But—ah, 
here at the end—let me read: 

“ ‘Well, he’s very clever, but he has nothing against 
me, has he?’ 

“ ‘No, not unless he can produce the agent who bought 
the radium for you.’ 

“ ‘But he can’t do that. No one could ever have 
recognised you on your flying trip to London disguised 
as a diamond merchant who had just learned that he 
could make his faulty diamonds good by applications of 
radium and who wanted a good stock of the stuff.’ 

“ ‘Still, we’ll have to drop the suit against Gregory 
after all, in spite of what I said. That part is hope¬ 
lessly spoiled.’ 

“ ‘Yes, I suppose so. Oh, well, I’m free now. She 
can hardly help but consent to a divorce now, and a 
quiet settlement. She brought it on herself—we tried 
every other way to do it, but she—she was too good to 
fall into it. She forced us to it. ’ 

“ ‘Yes, you’ll get a good divorce now. But can’t we 
shut up this man Kennedy ? Even if he can’t prove any- 


jENT bullet 

ire rumour of such a thing com¬ 
ing iA, the r vulkington would be unpleasant/ 

11 ‘Go as far as you like, Lawrence. You know what 
the marriage will mean to me. It will settle my debts to 
you and all the rest/ 

“ ‘I’ll see what I can do, Close. He’ll be back in a 
moment/ ” 

Close’s face was livid. “It’s a pack of lies!” 
he shouted, advancing toward Kennedy, “a pack 
of lies! You are a fakir and a blackmailer. I’ll 
have you in jail for this, by God—and you too, 
Gregory. ’ ’ 

“One moment, please,” said Kennedy calmly. 
“Mr. Lawrence, will you be so kind as to reach 
behind your chair? What do you find?” 

Lawrence lifted up the plain black box and with 
it he pulled up the wires which I had so carefully 
concealed in the cracks of the floor. 

“That,” said Kennedy, “is a little instrument 
called the microphone. Its chief merit lies in 
the fact that it will magnify a sound sixteen hun¬ 
dred times, and carry it to any given point 
where you wish to place the receiver. Originally 
this device was invented for the aid of the deaf, 
but I see no reason why it should not be used to 
aid the law. One needn’t eavesdrop at the key¬ 
hole with this little instrument about. Inside 
that box there is nothing but a series of plugs 
from which wires, much finer than a thread, are 
stretched taut. Yet a fly walking near it will 


THE dea: 

make a noise as loud 

microphone is placed in any part of the room, es¬ 
pecially if near the persons talking—even if they 
are talking in a whisper—a whisper such as oc¬ 
curred several times during the evening and par¬ 
ticularly while I was in the next room getting the 
notes made by my stenographer—a whisper, I 
say, is like shouting your guilt from the house¬ 
tops. 

“You two men, Close and Lawrence, may con¬ 
sider yourselves under arrest for conspiracy and 
whatever other indictments will lie against such 
creatures as you. The police will be here in a 
moment. No, Close, violence won’t do now. 
The doors are locked—and see, we are four to 
two.” 


V 


THE SEISMOGRAPH ADVENTURE 

“Dr. James Hanson, Coroner’s Physician, Crim¬ 
inal Courts Building,” read Craig Kennedy, as 
he held a visitor’s card in his hand. Then to the 
visitor he added, “Take a chair, Doctor.” 

The physician thanked him and sat down. 
“Professor Kennedy,” he began, “I have been 
referred to you by Inspector O’Connor of the De¬ 
tective Bureau. It may seem an impertinence 
for a city official to call on you for assistance, but 
—well, you see, I’m completely floored. I think, 
too, that the case will interest you. It’s the Van- 
dam case.” 

If Dr. Hanson had suddenly turned on the cur¬ 
rent of an induction coil and I had been holding 
the handles I don’t think the thrill I received 
could have been any more sudden. The Vandam 
case was the sensation of the moment, a triple 
puzzle, as both Kennedy and myself had agreed. 
Was it suicide, murder, or sudden death? Every 
theory, so far, had proved unsatisfactory. 

“I have read only what the newspapers have 
published,” replied Craig to the doctor’s look of 
inquiry. “You see, my friend Jameson here is 
1 22 


THE SEISMOGRAPH ADVENTURE 123 

on the staff of the Star, and we are in the habit 
of discussing these cases .’ 9 

“Very glad to meet you, Mr. Jameson,” ex¬ 
claimed Dr. Hanson at the implied introduction. 
“The relations between my office and your paper 
have always been very satisfactory, I can assure 
you.” 

“Thank you, Doctor. Depend on me to keep 
them so,” I replied, shaking his proffered 
hand. 

“Now, as to the case,” continued the doctor 
slowly. “Here is a beautiful woman in the prime 
of life, the wife of a very wealthy retired banker 
considerably older than herself—perhaps nearly 
seventy—of very fine family. Of course you have 
read it all, hut let me sketch it so you will look 
at it from my point of view. This woman, ap¬ 
parently in good health, with every luxury money 
can buy, is certain within a very few years, from 
her dower rights, to be numbered among the rich¬ 
est women in America. Yet she is discovered in 
the middle of the night by her maid, seated at 
the table in the library of her home, unconscious. 
She never regains consciousness, hut dies the fol¬ 
lowing morning. 

“The coroner is called in, and, as his physician, 
I must advise him. The family physician has 
pronounced it due to natural causes, the uremic 
coma of latent kidney trouble. Some of the news¬ 
papers, I think the Star among them, have hinted 


124 


THE SILENT BULLET 


at suicide. And then there are others, who have 
flatly asserted it was murder.” 

The coroner’s physician paused to see if we 
were following him. Needless to say Kennedy 
was ahead of him. 

“Have you any facts in your possession which 
have not been given to the public yet?” asked 
Craig. 

“I’m coming to that in a moment,’’ replied Dr. 
Hanson. “Let me sketch the case first. Henry 
Vandam had become—well, very eccentric in his 
old age, we will say. Among his eccentricities 
none seems to have impressed the newspapers 
more than his devotion to a medium and her man¬ 
ager, Mrs. May Popper and Mr. Howard Farring¬ 
ton. Now, of course, the case does not go into 
the truth or falsity of spiritualism, you under¬ 
stand. You have your opinion, and I have mine. 
What this aspect of the case involves is merely 
the character of the medium and her manager. 
You know, of course, that Henry Vandam is com¬ 
pletely under their control.” 

He paused again, to emphasise the point. 

“You asked me if I was in possession of any 
facts which have not been given to the press. 
Yes, I am. And just there lies the trouble. 
They are so very conflicting as to be almost worse 
than useless, as far as I can see. We found near 
the unfortunate woman a small pill-box with three 
capsules still in it. It was labelled ‘One before 


THE SEISMOGRAPH ADVENTURE 125 

retiring’ and bore the name of a certain druggist 
and the initials ‘Dr. G. W. H.’ Now, I am con¬ 
vinced that the initials are merely a blind and do 
not give any clue. The druggist says that a maid 
from the Vandam house brought in the prescrip¬ 
tion, which of course he filled. It is a harmless 
enough prescription—contains, among other 
things, four and a half grains of quinine and one- 
sixth of a grain of morphine. Six capsules were 
prepared altogether. 

“Now, of course my first thought was that she 
might have taken several capsules at once and 
that it was a case of accidental morphine poison¬ 
ing, or it might even be suicide. But it cannot be 
either, to my mind, for only three of the six cap¬ 
sules are gone. No doubt, also, you are ac¬ 
quainted with the fact that the one invariable 
symptom of morphine poisoning is the contrac¬ 
tion of the pupils of the eyes to a pin-point— 
often so that they are unrecognisable. Moreover, 
the pupils are symmetrically contracted, and this 
symptom is the one invariably present in coma 
from morphine poisoning and distinguishes it 
from all other forms of death. 

“On the other hand, in the coma of kidney dis¬ 
ease one pupil is dilated and the other contracted 
—they are unsymmetrical. But in this case both 
the pupils are normal, or only a very little di¬ 
lated, and they are symmetrical. So far we have 
been able to find no other poison than the slight 


126 


THE SILENT BULLET 

traces of morphine remaining in the stomach 
after so many honrs. I think you are enough of 
a chemist to know that no doctor would dare go 
on the stand and swear to death from morphinei 
poisoning in the face of such evidence against 
him. The veriest tyro of an expert toxicologist 
could too easily confute him.” 

Kennedy nodded. “Have you the pill-box and 
the prescription?” 

“I have,” replied Dr. Hanson, placing them on 
the table. 

Kennedy scrutinised them sharply. “I shall 
need these,” he said. “Of course you understand 
I will take very good care of them. Is there any¬ 
thing else of importance?” 

“Really, I don’t know,” said the physician du¬ 
biously. “It’s rather out of my province, but per¬ 
haps you would think it important. It’s mighty 
uncanny anyhow. Henry Vandam, as you doubt¬ 
less know, was much more deeply interested in 
the work of this medium than was his wife. Per¬ 
haps Mrs. Vandam was a bit jealous—I don’t 
know. But she, too, had an interest in spiritual¬ 
ism, though he was much more deeply influenced 
by Mrs. Popper than she. 

“Here’s the strange part of it. The old man 
believes so thoroughly in rappings and material¬ 
isations that he constantly keeps a notebook in 
his pocket in which he records all the materialisa¬ 
tions he thinks he sees and the rappings he hears, 


THE SEISMOGRAPH ADVENTURE 127 

along with the time and place. Now it so hap¬ 
pened that on the night Mrs. Vandam was taken 
ill, he had retired—I believe in another part of 
the house, where he has a regular seance-room. 
According to his story, he was awakened from a 
profound sleep by a series of rappings. As was 
his custom, he noted the time at which they oc¬ 
curred. Something made him uneasy, and he said 
to his ‘control’—at least this is his story: 

“ ‘John, is it about Mary?’ 

“Three raps answered ‘yes,’ the usual code. 

“ ‘What is the matter? Is she ill?’ 

“ The three answering raps were so vigorous 
that he sprang out of bed and called for his wife’s 
maid. The maid replied that Mrs. Vandam had 
not gone to bed yet, but that there was a light in 
the library and she would go to her mistress im¬ 
mediately. The next moment the house was 
awakened by the screams of the maid calling for 
help, that Mrs. Vandam was dying. 

“That was three nights ago. On each of the 
two succeeding nights Henry Vandam says he 
has been awakened at precisely the same hour by 
a rapping, and on each night his ‘control’ has 
given him a message from his dead wife. As a 
man of science, I attribute the whole thing to an 
overwrought imagination. The original rappings 
may have been a mere coincidence with the fact 
of the condition of Mrs. Vandam. However, I 
give this to you for what it is worth.” 


228 THE SILENT BULLET 

Craig said nothing, but, as was his habit, 
shaded his eyes with the tips of his fingers, rest¬ 
ing his elbows on the arms of his chair. “I sup¬ 
pose,’ ’ he said, “you can give me the necessary 
authority to enter the Vandam house and look at 
the scene of these happenings?” 

“Certainly,” assented the physician, “but you 
will find it a queer place. There are spirit paint¬ 
ings and spirit photographs in every room, and 
Vandam’s own part of the house—well, it’s 
creepy, that’s all I can say.” 

“And also I suppose you have performed an 
autopsy on the body and will allow me to drop 
into your laboratory to-morrow morning and sat¬ 
isfy myself on this morphine point?” 

“Certainly,” replied the coroner’s physician, 
“at any time you say.” 

“At ten sharp, then, to-morrow I shall be 
there,” said Craig. “It is now eight-thirty. Do 
you think I can see Vandam to-night? [What 
time do these rappings occur ? ’ ’ 

“Why, yes, you surely will be able to see him 
to-night. He hasn’t stirred from the house since 
his wife died. He told me he momentarily ex¬ 
pected messages from her direct when she had 
got strong enough in her new world. I believe 
they had some kind of a compact to that effect. 
The rappings come at twelve-thirty. ’ ’ 

“Ah, then I shall have plenty of time to run 
over to my laboratory before seeing Mr. Vandam 


THE SEISMOGRAPH ADVE1 

and get some apparatus I have ir 
Doctor, you needn’t bother to go wi 
give me a card of introduction. I’ll see you to¬ 
morrow at ten. Good-night—oh, by the way, 
don’t give out any of the facts you have told me.” 

“Jameson,” said Craig, when we were walking 
rapidly over toward the university, “this prom¬ 
ises to he an uncommonly difficult case.” 

“As I view it now,” I said, “I have suspicions 
of everybody concerned in it. Even the view of 
the Star, that it is a case of suicide due to over¬ 
wrought nerves, may explain it.” 

“It might even be a natural death,” Craig 
added. “And that would make it a greater mys¬ 
tery than ever—a case for psychical research. 
One thing that I am going to do to-night will tell 
me much, however.” 

At the laboratory he unlocked a glass case and 
took out a little instrument which looked like two 
horizontal pendulums suspended by tine wires. 
There was a large magnet near each pendulum, 
and the end of each pendulum bore a needle which 
touched a circular drum driven by clock-work. 
Craig fussed with and adjusted the apparatus, 
while I said nothing, for I had long ago learned 
that in applying a new apparatus to doing old 
things Craig was as dumb as an oyster, until his 
work was crowned with success. 

We had no trouble in getting in to see Mr. Van- 
dam in his seance-room. His face was familiar 


130 THE SILENT BULLET 

to me, for I had seen him in public a number ul 
times, but it looked strangely altered. He was 
nervous, and showed his age very perceptibly. 

It was as the coroner’s physician had said. 
The house was littered with reminders of the cult, 
books, papers, curious dailbs of paintings hand¬ 
somely framed, and photographs; hazy over-ex¬ 
posures, I should have called them, but Mr. Van- 
dam took great pride in them, and Kennedy quite 
won him over by his admiration for them. 

They talked about the rappings, and the old 
man explained where and when they occurred. 
They proceeded from a little cabinet or closet at 
one end of the room. It was evident that he was 
a thorough believer in them and in the messages 
they conveyed. 

Craig carefully noted everything about the 
room and then fell to admiring the spirit photo¬ 
graphs, if such they might be called. 

“The best of all I do not display, they are too 
precious,” said the old man. “Would you like 
to see them?” 

Craig assented eagerly, and Vandam left us for 
a moment to get them. In an instant Craig had 
entered the cabinet, and in a dark corner on the 
floor he deposited the mechanism he had brought 
from the laboratory. Then he resumed his seat, 
shutting the box in which he had brought the 
mechanism, so that it would not appear that he 
had left anything about the room. 


E 131 


THE SEISMOGRAPH 1 

Artfully lie led the conve g lines 

that interested the old man med to 

forget the hour. Not so, Craig, lie Knew it was 
nearing half-past twelve. The more they talked 
the more uncanny did this house and room of 
spirits seem to me. In fact, I was rapidly reach¬ 
ing the point where I could have sworn that once 
or twice something incorporeal brushed by me. 
I know now that it was purely imagination, but 
it shows what tricks the imagination can play 
on us. 

Rap! rap! rap! rap! rap! 

Five times came a curiously hollow noise from 
the cabinet. If it had been possible I should cer¬ 
tainly have fled, it was so sudden and unexpected. 
The hall clock downstairs struck the half-hour in 
those chimes written by Handel for St. Paul’s. 

Craig leaned over to me and whispered 
hoarsely, “Keep perfectly still—don’t move a 
hand or foot.” 

The old man seemed utterly to have forgotten 
us. “Is that you, John?” he asked expectantly. 

Rap! rap! rap! came the reply. 

“Is Mary strong enough to speak to me to¬ 
night?” 

Rap! rap! 

“Is she happy?” 

Rap! rap! 

“What makes her unhappy? What does she 
want? Will you spell it out?” 


132 


TliE SILENT BULLET 

Rap! rap! rap! 

Then, after a pause, the rapping started slowly 
and distinctly to spell out words. It was so weird 
and uncanny that I scarcely breathed. Letter 
after letter the message came, nineteen raps for 
“s,” eight for “h,” five for “e,” according to the 
place in the alphabet, numerically, of the required 
letter. At last it was complete: 

“She thinks you are not well. She asks you 
to have that prescription filled again.’’ 

“Tell her I will do it to-morrow morning. Is 
there anything else?” 

Rap! rap! came back faintly. 

“John, John, don’t go yet,” pleaded the old 
man earnestly. It was easy to see how 
thoroughly he believed in “John,” as perhaps 
well he might after the warning of his wife’s 
death three nights before. “Won’t you answer 
one other question?” 

Fainter, almost imperceptibly, came a rap! 
rap! 

For several minutes the old man sat absorbed 
in thought, trance-like. Then, gradually, he 
seemed to realise that we were in the room with: 
him. With difficulty he took up the thread of the 
conversation where the rappings had broken it. 

“We were talking about the photographs,” he 
said slowly. “I hope soon to get one of my wife 
as she is now that she is transfigured. John has 
promised me one soon.” 


THE SEISMOGRAPH AD YEN' 


He was gathering up his treasures ] ( 
to putting them back in their places o 
ing. The moment he was out of the room Craig 
darted into the cabinet and replaced his mechan¬ 
ism in the box. Then he began softly to tap the 
walls. At last he found the side that gave a noise 
similar to that which we had heard, and he seemed 
pleased to have found it, for he hastily sketched 
on an old envelope a plan of that part of the 
house, noting on it the location of the side of the 
cabinet. 

Kennedy almost dragged me back to our apart¬ 
ment, he was in such a hurry to examine the ap¬ 
paratus at his leisure. He turned on all the 
lights, took the thing out of its case, and stripped 
off the two sheets of ruled paper wound around 
the two revolving drums. He laid them flat on 
the table and studied them for some minutes with 
evidently growing satisfaction. 

At last he turned to me and said, “Walter, here 
is a ghost caught in the act.” 

I looked dubiously at the irregular up-and-down 
scrawl on the paper, while he rang up the Homi¬ 
cide Bureau of the Central Office and left word 
for O’Connor to call him up the first thing in the 
morning. 

Still eyeing with satisfaction the record traced 
on the sheets of paper, he lighted a cigarette in 
a matter-of-fact way and added: “It proves to be 
a very much flesh-and-blood ghost, this ‘John.’ 


134 THE SILENT BULLET 

It walked up to the wall back of that cabinet, 
rapped, listened to old Vandam, rapped some 
more, got tbe answer it wanted, and walked de¬ 
liberately away. Tbe cabinet, as you may have 
noticed, is in a corner of tbe room with one side 
along tbe ballway. Tbe gbost must have been in 
tbe ball.” 

“But wbo was it?” 

“Not so fast, Walter,” laughed Craig. “Isn’t 
it enough for one night that we have found out 
that much ? ” 

Fortunately I was tired, or I certainly should 
have dreamed of rappings and of “John” that 
night. I was awakened early by Kennedy talk¬ 
ing with someone over tbe telephone. It was In¬ 
spector O’Connor. 

Of course I beard only one side of tbe conver¬ 
sation, but as near as I could gather Kennedy 
was asking tbe inspector to obtain several sam¬ 
ples of ink for him. I bad not beard the first 
part of tbe conversation, and was considerably 
surprised when Kennedy bung up tbe receiver 
and said: 

“Vandam bad tbe prescription filled again 
early this morning, and it will soon be in tbe 
bands of O’Connor. I hope I haven’t spoiled 
things by acting too soon, but I don’t want to run 
tbe risk of a double tragedy.” 

“Well,” I said, “it is incomprehensible to me. 
First I suspected suicide. Then I suspected mur- 


THE SEISMOGRAPH ADVENTURE 135 

der. Now I almost suspect a murder and a sui¬ 
cide. The fact is, I don’t know just what I sus¬ 
pect. I’m like Dr. Hanson—floored. I wonder 
if Vandam would voluntarily take all the capsules 
at once in order to be with his wife?” 

“One of them alone would be quite sufficient if 
the ‘ghost’ should take a notion, as I think it will* 
to walk in the daytime,” replied Craig enigmati¬ 
cally. “I don’t want to run any chances, as I 
have said. I may be wrong in my theory of the 
case, Walter, so let us not discuss, this phase of 
it until I have gone a step farther and am sure of 
my ground. O’Connor’s man will get the cap¬ 
sules before Vandam has a chance to take the 
first one, anyhow. The ‘ghost’ had a purpose in 
that message, for O’Connor tells me that Van- 
dam’s lawyer visited him yesterday and in all 
probability a new will is being made, perhaps has 
already been made.” 

We breakfasted in silence and later rode down 
to the office of Dt. Hanson, who greeted us en¬ 
thusiastically. 

“I’ve solved it at last,” he cried, “and it’s 
easy.” 

Kennedy looked gravely over the analysis which 
Dr. Hanson shoved into his hand, and seemed 
very much interested in the probable quantity of 
morphine that must have been taken to yield such 
an analysis. The physician had a text-book open 
on his desk. 


136 THE SILENT BULLET 

“Our old ideas of the infallible test of mor¬ 
phine poisoning are all exploded,” he said, ex¬ 
citedly beginning to read a passage he had marked 
in the book. 

“ ‘I have thought that inequality of the pupils, that 
is to say, where they are not symmetrically contracted, 
is proof that a ease is not one of narcotism, or mor¬ 
phine poisoning. But Professor Taylor has recorded a 
case of morphine poisoning in which the unsymmetrical 
contraction occurred.’ 

“There, now, until I happened to run across 
that in one of the authorities I had supposed the 
symmetrical contraction of the pupils of the eyes 
to be the distinguishing symptom of morphine 
poisoning. Professor Kennedy, in my opinion 
we can, after all, make out our case as one of mor¬ 
phine poisoning.” 

“Is that case in the book all you base your 
opinion on!” asked Craig with excessive polite¬ 
ness. 

“Yes, sir,” replied the doctor reluctantly. 

“Well,” said Kennedy quietly, “if you will in¬ 
vestigate that case quoted from Professor Tay¬ 
lor, you will find that it has been proved that the 
patient had one glass eye!” 

“Then my contention tollapses and she was not 
poisoned?” 

“No, I do not say that. All I say is that ex¬ 
pert testimony would refute us as far as we have 


THE SEISMOGRAPH A 137 

gone. But if you will let me make a few tests of 
my own I can readily clear up that end of the case, 
I now feel sure. Let me take these samples to my 
laboratory.’’ 

I was surprised when we ran into Inspector 
O’Connor waiting for us in the corridor of the 
Criminal Courts Building as we left the office of 
the coroner’s physician. He rushed up to Ken¬ 
nedy and shoved into his hand a pill-box in which 
six capsules rattled. Kennedy narrowly in¬ 
spected the box, opened it, and looked thought¬ 
fully at the six white capsules lying so innocently 
within. 

“One of these capsules would have been worth 
hundreds of thousands of dollars to ‘John,’ ” 
said Craig contemplatively, as he shut the box 
and deposited it carefully in his inside vest pocket. 
“I don’t believe I even said good morning to you, 
O’Connor,” he continued. “I hope I haven’t 
kept you waiting here long. Have you obtained 
the samples of ink?” 

“Yes, Professor. Here they are. As soon as 
you telephoned this morning I sent my men out 
separately to get them. There’s the ink from the 
druggist, this is from the Vandam library, this is 
from Farrington’s room, and this is from Mrs. 
Popper’s apartment.” 

* ‘ Thank you, Inspector. I don’t know what I’d 
do without your help,” said Kennedy, eagerly- 
taking four small vials from him. “Science is 


138 THE SILENT BULLET 

all right, but organisation enables science to wort 
quickly. And quickness is the essence of this 
case.” 

During the afternoon Kennedy was very busy 
in bis laboratory, where I found him that night 
after my hurried dinner, from which he was ab¬ 
sent. 

‘ 4 What, is it after dinner-time?” he exclaimed, 
holding up a glass beaker and watching the re¬ 
action of something he poured into it from a test- 
tube. 

“Craig, I believe that when you are absorbed 
in a case, you would rather work than eat. Did 
you have any lunch after I left you?” 

“I don’t think so,” he replied, regarding the 
beaker and not his answer. “Now, Walter, old 
fellow, I don’t want you to be offended with me, 
but really I can work better if you don’t con¬ 
stantly remind me of such things as eating and 
sleeping. Say, do you want to help me—really?” 

“Certainly. I am as interested in the case as 
you are, but I can’t make heads or tails of it,” I 
replied. 

“Then, I wish you would look up Mrs. Popper 
to-night and have a private seance with her. 
What I want you to do particularly is to get a 
good idea of the looks of the room in which she 
is accustomed to work. I’m going to duplicate it 
here in my laboratory as nearly as possible. 
Then I want you to arrange with her for a pri- 


139 


THE SEISMOGEAPH A 

vate ‘ circle ’ here to-morrow ni 0 __ it is 

with a few professors at the university who are 
interested in psychical research and that Mr. Van- 
dam will be present. I’d rather have her come 
willingly than to force her to come. Incidentally 
watch that manager of hers, Farrington. By all 
means he must accompany her.” 

That evening I dropped casually in on Mrs. 
Popper. She was a woman of great brilliance and 
delicacy, both in her physical and mental percep¬ 
tions, of exceptional vivacity and cleverness. 
She must have studied me more closely than I 
was aware of, for I believe she relied on diverting 
my attention whenever she desired to produce one 
of her really wonderful results. Needless to say, 
I was completely mystified by her performance. 
She did spirit writing that would have done credit 
to the immortal Slade, told me a lot of things that 
were true, and many more that were unverifiable 
or hopelessly vague. It was really worth much 
more than the price, and I did not need to feign 
the interest necessary to get her terms for a circle 
in the laboratory. 

Of course I had to make the terms with Farring¬ 
ton. The first glance aroused my suspicions of 
him. He was shifty-eyed, and his face had a hard 
and mercenary look. In spite of, perhaps rather 
because of, my repugnance we quickly came to an 
agreement, and as I left the apartment I mentally 
resolved to keep my eye on him. 


140 THE SILENT BULLET 

Craig came in late, having been engaged in bis 
chemical analyses all the evening. From bis 
manner I inferred that they bad been satisfac¬ 
tory, and be seemed mncb gratified when I told 
him that I bad arranged successfully for the 
seance and that Farrington would accompany the 
medium. 

As we were talking over the case a messenger 
arrived with a note from O’Connor. It was writ¬ 
ten with bis usual brevity: “Have just found from 
servants that Farrington and Mrs. P. have key to 
Yandam house. Wish I bad known it before. 
House shadowed. No one has entered or left it 
to-night.” 

Craig looked at bis watch. It was a quarter 
after one. “The ghost won’t walk to-night, Wal¬ 
ter,” he said as he entered his bedroom for a 
much-needed rest. “I guess I was right after all 
in getting the capsules as soon as possible. The 
ghost must have flitted unobserved in there this 
morning directly after the maid brought them 
back from the druggist.” 

Again, the next morning, he had me out of bed 
bright and early. As we descended from the 
Sixth Avenue “ L, ” he led me into a peculiar little 
shop in the shadow of the “L” structure. He 
entered as though he knew the place well; but, 
then, that air of assurance was Kennedy’s stock 
in trade and sat very well on him. 

Few people, I suppose, have ever had a glimpse 


THE SEISMOGRi\ 

of this workshop of magic ami ULCV-Cp oivyjLj., JLiilii 
little shop of Marina’s was the headquarters of 
the magicians of the country. Levitation and 
ghostly disappearing hands were on every side. 
The shelves in the back of the shop were full of 
nickel, brass, wire, wood, and papier-mache con¬ 
trivances, new and strange to the eye of the un¬ 
initiated. Yet it was all as systematic as a hard¬ 
ware shop. 

“Is Signor Marina inf” asked Craig of a girl 
in the first room, given up to picture post-cards. 
The room was as deceptive as the trade, for it 
was only an anteroom to the storeroom I have de¬ 
scribed above. This storeroom was also a fac¬ 
tory, and half a dozen artisans were hard at work 
in it. 

Yes, the signor was in, the girl replied, leading 
us back into the workshop. He proved to be a 
short man with a bland, open face and frank eyes, 
the very antithesis of his trade. 

“I have arranged for a circle with Mrs. May 
Popper,” began Kennedy, handing the man his 
card. ‘ ‘I suppose you know her ? 9 9 

“Indeed yes,” he answered. “I furnished her 
seance-room.” 

“Well, I want to hire for to-night just the same 
sort of tables, cabinets, carpets, everything that 
she has—only hire, you understand, but I am will¬ 
ing to pay you well for them. It is the best way 
to get a good sitting, I believe. Can you do it?” 


142 THE SILENT BULLET 

The little man thought a moment, then replied: 
“Si, signor—yes—very nearly, near enough. I 
would do anything for Mrs. Popper. She is a 
good customer. But her manager—” 

“My friend here, Mr. Jameson, has had seances 
with her in her own apartment,’’ interposed 
Craig. “Perhaps he can help you to recollect 
just what is necessary.” 

“I know very well, signor. I have the dupli¬ 
cate bill, the bill which was paid by that Farring¬ 
ton with a check from the banker Vandam. 
Leave it to me.” 

‘ ‘ Then you will get the stuff together this morn¬ 
ing and have it up to my place this afternoon?” 

“Yes, Professor, yes. It is a bargain. I 
would do anything for Mrs. Popper—she is a fine 
woman. ’’ 

Late that afternoon I rejoined Craig at his lab¬ 
oratory. Signor Marina had already arrived 
with a truck and was disposing the paraphernalia 
about the laboratory. He had first laid a thick 
black rug. Mrs. Popper very much affected black 
carpets, and I had noticed that Vandam’s room 
was carpeted in black, too. I suppose black con¬ 
ceals everything that one oughtn’t to see at a 
seance. 

A cabinet with a black curtain, several chairs, 
a light deal table, several banjos, horns, and other 
instruments were disposed about the room. With 
a few suggestions from me we made a fair dupli- 


THE SEISM 

cation of the hangings on the walls. Kennedy 
was manifestly anxious to finish, and at last it 
was done. 

After Marina had gone, Kennedy stretched a 
curtain over the end of the room farthest from 
the cabinet. Behind it he placed on a shelf the 
apparatus composed of the pendulums and mag¬ 
nets. The beakers and test-tubes were also on 
this shelf. 

He had also arranged that the cabinet should 
be so situated that it was next a hallway that ran 
past his laboratory. 

44 To-night, Jameson,’’ he said, indicating a spot 
on the hall wall just back of the cabinet, “ I shall 
want you to bring my guests out here and do a 
little spirit rapping—I’ll tell you just what to do 
when the time comes.” 

That night, when we gathered in the trans¬ 
formed laboratory, there were Henry Vandam, 
Dr. Hanson, Inspector O’Connor, Kennedy, and 
myself. At last the sound of wheels was heard, 
and Mrs. Popper drove up in a hansom, accom¬ 
panied by Farrington. They both inspected the 
room narrowly and seemed satisfied. I had, as I 
have said, taken a serious dislike to the man, and 
watched him closely. I did not like his air of 
calm assurance. 

The lights were switched off, all except one six¬ 
teen-candle-power lamp in the farthest corner, 
shaded by a deep-red globe. It was just light 


144 f'HE SILENT BULLET 

enough to see to read very large print with diffi¬ 
culty. 

Mrs. Popper began immediately with the table. 
Kennedy and I sat on her right and left respect¬ 
ively, in the circle, and held her hands and feet. 
I confess to a real thrill when I felt the light table 
rise first on two legs, then on one, and finally re¬ 
main suspended in the air, whence it dropped 
with a thud, as if someone had suddenly with¬ 
drawn his support. 

The medium sat with her back to the curtain 
of the cabinet, and several times I could have 
sworn that a hand reached out and passed close 
to my head. At least it seemed so. The curtain 
bulged at times, and a breeze seemed to sweep 
out from the cabinet. 

After some time of this sort of work Craig led 
gradually up to a request for a materialisation of 
the control of Vandam, but Mrs. Popper refused. 
She said she did not feel strong enough, and Far¬ 
rington put in a hasty word that he, too, could 
feel that 4 4 there was something working against 
them.” But Kennedy was importunate and at 
last she consented to see if 44 John” would do 
some rapping, even if he could not materialise. 

Kennedy asked to be permitted to put the ques¬ 
tions. 

44 Are you the 4 John’ who appears to Mr. Van- 
dam every night at twelve-thirty?” 

Bap! rap! rap! came the faint reply from the 


THE SEISMOGRAPH ADVENTURE 145 

cabinet. Or rather it seemed to me to come from 
the floor near the cabinet, and perhaps to be a 
trifle muffled by the black carpet. 

“Are you in communication with Mrs. Van- 
dam ? ’ ’ 

Rap! rap! rap! 

“Can she be made to rap for us?” 

Rap! rap! 

“Will you ask her a question and spell out her 
answer?” 

Rap! rap! rap! 

Craig paused a moment to frame the question, 
then shot it out point-blank: “Does Mrs. Vandam 
know now in the other world whether anyone in 
this room substituted a morphine capsule for one 
of those ordered by her three days before she 
died? Does she know whether the same person 
has done the same thing with those later ordered 
by Mr. Vandam?” 

“John” seemed considerably perturbed at the 
mention of capsules. It was a long time before 
any answer was forthcoming. Kennedy was 
about to repeat the question when a faint sound 
was heard. 

Rap!— 

Suddenly came a wild scream. It was such a 
scream as I had never heard before in my life. 
It came as though a dagger had been thrust into 
the heart of Mrs. Popper. The lights flashed up 
as Kennedy turned the switch. 


146 THE SILENT BULLET 

A man was lying flat on the floor—it was In¬ 
spector O’Connor. He had succeeded in slipping 
noiselessly, like a snake, below the curtain into 
the cabinet. Craig had told him to look out for 
wires or threads stretched from Mrs. Popper’s 
clothing to the bulging curtain of the cabinet. 
Imagine his surprise when he saw that she had 
simply freed her foot from the shoe, which I was 
carefully holding down, and with a backward 
movement of the leg was reaching out into the 
cabinet behind her chair and was doing the rap¬ 
ping with her toes. 

Lying on the floor he had grasped her foot and 
caught her heel with a firm hand. She had re¬ 
sponded with a wild yell that showed she knew 
she was trapped. Her secret was out. 

Hysterically Mrs. Popper began to upbraid the 
inspector as he rose to his feet, but Farrington 
quickly interposed. 

“Something was working against us to-night, 
gentlemen. Yet you demanded results. And 
when the spirits will not come, what is she to do ? 
She forgets herself in her trance; she produces, 
herself, the things that you all could see super- 
naturally if you were in sympathy.” 

The mere sound of Farrington’s voice seemed 
to rouse in me all the animosity of my nature. 
I felt that a man who could trump up an excuse 
like that when a person was caught with the goods 
was capable of almost anything. 


THE SEISMOGRAPH ADVENTURE 147 

‘‘Enough of this fake seance/’ exclaimed Craig. 
“I have let it go on merely for the purpose of 
opening the eyes of a certain deluded gentleman 
in this room. Now, if you will all be seated I shall 
have something to say that will finally establish 
whether Mary Vandam was the victim of acci¬ 
dent, suicide, or murder.’’ 

With hearts beating rapidly we sat in silence. 

Craig took the beakers and test-tubes from the 
shelf behind the curtain and placed them on the 
little deal table that had been so merrily dancing 
about the room. 

“The increasing frequency with which tales of 
murder by poison appear in the newspapers/’ he 
began formally, “is proof of how rapidly this 
new civilisation of ours is taking on the aspects 
of the older civilisations across the seas. Hu¬ 
man life is cheap in this country; but the 
ways in which human life has been taken 
among us have usually been direct, simple, above¬ 
board, in keeping with our democratic and pio¬ 
neer traditions. The pistol and the bowie-knife 
for the individual, the rope and the torch for the 
mob, have been the usual instruments of sudden 
death. But when we begin to use poisons most 
artfully compounded in order to hasten an ex¬ 
pected bequest and remove obstacles in its way— 
well, we are practising an art that calls up all the 
memories of sixteenth century Italy. 

“In this beaker,” he continued, “I have some 


148 THE SILENT BULLET 

of the contents of the stomach of the unfortunate 
woman. The coroner’s physician has found that 
they show traces of morphine. Was the mor¬ 
phine in such quantities as to be fatal? Without 
doubt. But equally without doubt analysis could 
not discover and prove it in the face of one in¬ 
consistency. The usual test which shows mor¬ 
phine poisoning failed in this case. The pupils 
of her eyes were not symmetrically contracted. 
In fact they were normal. 

“Now, the murderer must have known of this 
test. This clever criminal also knew that to be 
successful in the use of this drug where others 
had failed, the drug must be skilfully mixed with 
something else. In that first box of capsules 
there were six. The druggist compounded them 
correctly according to the prescription. But be¬ 
tween the time when they came into the house 
from the druggist’s and the time when she took 
the first capsule, that night, someone who had ac¬ 
cess to the house emptied one capsule of its harm¬ 
less contents and refilled it with a deadly dose of 
morphine—a white powder which looks just like 
the powder already in the capsules. 

“Why, then, the normal pupils of the eyes? 
Simply because the criminal put a little atropine, 
or belladonna, with the morphine. My tests show 
absolutely the presence of atropine, Dr. Hanson, ’ 7 
said Craig, bowing to the physician. 

* 4 The best evidence, however, is yet to come. A 


THE SEISMOGRAPH ADVENTURE 149 

second box of six capsules, all intact, was discov¬ 
ered yesterday in the possession of Henry Van- 
dam. I have analysed the capsules. One contains 
no quinine at all—it is all morphine and atropine. 
It is, without doubt, precisely similar to the cap¬ 
sule which killed Mrs. Vandam. Another night 
or so, and Henry Vandam would have died the 
same death.” 

The old man groaned. Two such exposures 
had shaken him. He looked from one of us to 
another as if not knowing in whom he could trust. 
But Kennedy hurried on to his next point. 

4 ‘Who was it that gave the prescription to Mrs. 
Vandam originally? She is dead and cannot tell. 
The others won’t tell, for the person who gave 
her that prescription was the person who later 
substituted the fatal capsule in place of the harm¬ 
less. The original prescription is here. I have 
been able to discover from it nothing at all by ex¬ 
amining the handwriting. Nor does the texture 
of the paper indicate anything to me. But the ink 
—ah, the ink. 

“Most inks seem very similar, I suppose, but 
to a person who has made a study of the chemical 
composition of ink they are very different. Ink 
is composed of iron tannate, which on exposure 
to air gives the black of writing. The original 
pigment—say blue or blue-black ink—is placed 
in the ink, to make the writing visible at first, 
and gradually fades, giving place to the black of 


150 THE SILENT BULLET 

the tannate which is formed. The dyestuffs em¬ 
ployed in the commercial inks of to-day vary in 
colour from pale greenish blue to indigo and deep 
violet. No two give identical reactions—at all 
events not when mixed with the iron tannate to 
form the pigment in writing. 

“It is owing to the difference in these provi¬ 
sional colouring matters that it is possible to 
distinguish between writing written with different 
kinds of ink. I was able easily to obtain samples 
of the inks used by the Vandams, by Mrs. Pop¬ 
per, by Mr. Farrington, and by the druggist. I 
have compared the writing of the original pre¬ 
scription with a colour scale of my own construc¬ 
tion, and I have made chemical tests. The drug¬ 
gist’s ink conforms exactly to the writing on the 
two pill-boxes, but not to the prescription. One 
of the other three inks conforms by test abso¬ 
lutely to the ink in that prescription signed ‘Dr. 
C. W. H.’ as a blind. In a moment my chain of 
evidence against the owner of that bottle of ink 
will be complete. ’ ’ 

I could not help but think of the two pendulums 
on the shelf behind the curtain, but Craig said 
nothing for a moment to indicate that he referred 
to that apparatus. We sat dazed. Farrington 
seemed nervous and ill at ease. Mrs. Popper, 
who had not recovered from the hysterical con¬ 
dition of her exposure, with difficulty controlled 
her emotion. Vandam was crushed. 


THE SEISMOGRAPH ADVENTURE 151 

“I have not only arranged this laboratory so 
as to reproduce Mrs. Popper’s seance-room,” be¬ 
gan Craig afresh, “but I have had the cabinet 
placed in relatively the same position a similar 
cabinet occupies in Mr. Vandam’s private seance- 
room in the Vandam mansion. 

“One night, Mr. Jameson and myself were vis¬ 
iting Mr. Vandam. At precisely twelve-thirty we 
heard most unaccountable rappings from that 
cabinet. I particularly noted the position of the 
cabinet. Back of it ran a hallway. That is dupli¬ 
cated here. Back of this cabinet is a hallway. 
I had heard of these rappings before we went, but 
was afraid that it would be impossible for me to 
catch the ghost red handed. There is a limit to 
what you can do the firsf time you enter a man’s 
house, and, besides, that was no time to arouse 
suspicion in the mind of anyone. But science 
has a way out of every dilemma. I determined 
to learn something of these rappings.” 

Craig paused and glanced first at Farrington, 
then at Mrs. Popper, and then at Mr. Vandam. 

“Mr. Jameson,” he resumed, “will escort the 
doctor, the inspector, Mr. Farrington, Mrs. Pop¬ 
per, and Mr. Vandam into my imitation hall of 
the Vandam mansion. I want each of you in turn 
to tiptoe up that hall to a spot indicated on the 
wall, back of the cabinet, and strike that spot sev¬ 
eral sharp blows with your knuckles.” 

I did as Craig instructed tiptoeing up myself 


152 


THE SILENT BULLET 

first so that they could not mistake his meaning. 
The rest followed separately, and after a moment 
we returned silently in suppressed excitement to 
the room. 

Craig was still standing by the table, but now 
the pendulums with the magnets and needles and 
the drums worked by clockwork were before him. 

“Another person outside the Vandam family 
had a key to the Vandam mansion,’’ he began 
gravely. “That person, by the way, was the one 
who waited, night by night, until Mrs. Vandam 
took the fatal capsule, and then when she had 
taken it apprised the old man of the fact and 
strengthened an already blind faith in the shadow 
world.’ 9 

You could have heard a pin drop. In fact yon 
could almost have felt it drop. 

“That other person who, unobserved, had free 
access to the house,” he continued in the breath¬ 
less stillness, “is in this room now.” 

He was looking at O’Connor as if for corrobo¬ 
ration. O’Connor nodded. “Information de¬ 
rived from the butler, ’ ’ he muttered. 

1 6 I did not know this until yesterday, ’ ’ Kennedy 
continued, “but I suspected that something of the 
sort existed when I was first told by Dr. Hanson 
of the rappings. I determined to hear those rap- 
pings, and make a record of them. So, the night 
Mr. Jameson and I visited Mr. Yjandam, I carried 
this little instrument with me. ’ ’ 


THE SEISMOGRAPH A 

Almost lovingly lie touched ... o uu-ia Oii 

the table. They were now at rest and kept so by 
means of a lever that prevented all vibration 
whatever. 

‘ ‘ See, I release this lever—now, let no one in 
the room move. Watch the needles on the paper 
as the clockwork revolves the drums. I take a 
step—ever so lightly. The pendulums vibrate, 
and the needles trace a broken line on the paper 
on each drum. I stop; the lines are practically 
straight. I take another step and another, ever 
so lightly. See the delicate pendulums vibrate? 
See, the lines they trace are jagged lines.’’ 

He stripped the paper off the drums and laid 
it flat on the table before him, with two other sim¬ 
ilar pieces of paper. 

“ Just before the time of the rapping I placed 
this instrument in the comer of the Vandam cab¬ 
inet, just as I placed it in this cabinet after Mr. 
Jameson conducted you from the room. In 
neither case were suspicions aroused. Every¬ 
thing in both cases was perfectly normal—I mean 
the 1 ghost’ was in ignorance of the presence, if 
not the very existence, of this instrument. 

“This is an improved seismograph,” he ex¬ 
plained, “one after a very recent model by Prince 
Galitzin of the Imperial Academy of St. Peters¬ 
burg. The seismograph, as you know, was de¬ 
vised to register earthquakes at a distance. 
This one not only measures the size of a distant 


THE SILENT BULLET 

but the actual direction from which 
the earth-tremors come. That is why there are 
two pendulums and two drums. 

“The magnetic arrangement is to cut short 
the vibrations set up in the pendulums, to prevent 
them from continuing to vibrate after the first 
shock. Thus they are ready in an instant to re¬ 
cord another tremor. Other seismographs con¬ 
tinue to vibrate for a long time as a result of one 
tremor only. Besides, they give little indication 
of the direction from which the tremors come. 

“I think you must all appreciate that your 
tiptoeing up the hall must cause a far greater 
disturbance in this delicate seismograph than 
even a very severe earthquake thousands of miles 
nway, which it was built to record.” 

He paused and examined the papers sharply. 

“This is the record made by the ‘ghost’s’ walk 
the other night,” he said, holding up two of them 
in his left hand. “Here on the table, on two 
other longer sheets, I have records of the vibra¬ 
tions set up by those in this room walking to¬ 
night. 

“Here is Mr. Jameson’s—his is not a bit like 
the ghost’s. Nor is Mr. Vandam’s. Least of 
all are Dr. Hanson’s and Inspector O’Connor’s, 
for they are heavy men. 

“Now here is Mr. Farrington’s”—he bent 
down closely—“he is a light man, and the ghost 
was light.” 


THE SEISMOGRAPH ADVENTURE 155 

Craig was playing with his victim like a cat 
with a mouse. 

Suddenly I felt something brush by me, and 
with a swish of air and of garments I saw Mrs. 
Popper fling herself wildly at the table that bore 
the incriminating records. In another instant 
Farrington was on his feet and had made a wild 
leap in the same direction. 

It was done so quickly that I must have acted 
first and thought afterward. I found myself in 
the midst of a melee with my hand at his throat 
and his at mine. O’Connor with a jiu-jitsu move¬ 
ment bent Farrington’s other arm until he re¬ 
leased me with a cry of pain. 

In front of me I saw Craig grasping Mrs. Pop¬ 
per’s wrists as in a vise. She was glaring at him 
like a tigress. 

“Do you suppose for a moment that that toy is 
going to convince the world that Henry Vandam 
has been deceived and that the spirit which visited 
him was a fraud U Is that why you have lured 
me here under false pretences, to play on my feel¬ 
ings, to insult me, to take advantage of a lone, 
defenceless woman, surrounded by hostile men? 
Shame on you,” she added contemptuously. 
“You call yourself a gentleman, but I call you a 
coward.” 

Kennedy, always calm and collected, ignored 
the tirade. His voice was as cold as steel as he 
said: “It would do little good, Mrs. Popper, to 


156 THE SILENT BULLET 

destroy this one link in the chain I have forged. 
The other links are too heavy for you. Don’t 
forget the evidence of the ink. It was your ink. 
Don’t forget that Henry Yandam will not any 
longer conceal that he has altered his will in fa¬ 
vour of you. To-night he goes from here to his 
lawyer’s to draw up a new will altogether. 
Don’t forget that you have caused the Vandams 
separately to have the prescription filled, and 
that you are now caught in the act of a double 
murder. Don’t forget that you had access to the 
Yandam mansion, that you substituted the deadly 
for the harmless capsules. Don’t forget that 
your rappings announced the death of one of your 
victims and urged the other, a cruelly wronged 
and credulous old man, to leave millions to you 
who had deceived and would have killed him. 

“No, the record of the ghost on the seismo¬ 
graph was not Mr. Farrington’s, as I implied at 
the moment when you so kindly furnished this 
additional proof of your guilt by trying to de¬ 
stroy the evidence. The ghost was you, Mrs. 
Popper, and you are at liberty to examine the 
markings as minutely as you please, but you must 
not destroy them. You are an astute criminal, 
Mrs. Popper, but to-night you are under arrest 
for the murder of Mary Yandam and the at¬ 
tempted murder of Henry Yandam.” 


VI 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 

“I’ve called, Professor Kennedy, to see if we can 
retain you in a case which I am sure will tax even 
your resources. Heaven knows it has taxed 
ours.” 

The visitor was a large, well-built man. He 
placed his hat on the table and, without taking off 
his gloves, sat down in an easy chair which he 
completely filled. 

“Andrews is my name—third vice-president of 
the Great Eastern Life Insurance Company. I 
am the nominal head of the company’s private 
detective force, and though I have some pretty 
clever fellows on my staff we’ve got a case that, 
so far, none of us has been able to unravel. I’d 
like to consult you about it.” 

Kennedy expressed his entire willingness to be 
consulted, and after the usual formalities were 
over, Mr. Andrews proceeded: 

“I suppose you are aware that the large in¬ 
surance companies maintain quite elaborate de¬ 
tective forces and follow very keenly such of the 
cases of their policy-holders as look at all suspi¬ 
cious. This case which I wish to put in your 

157 


158 THE SILENT BULLET 

hands is that of Mr. Solomon Morowitch, a 
wealthy Maiden Lane jeweller. I suppose you 
have read something in the papers about his sud¬ 
den death and the strange robbery of his safe?” 

“Very little,” replied Craig. “There hasn’t 
been much to read.” 

“Of course not, of course not,” said Mr. An¬ 
drews with some show of gratification. “I flat¬ 
ter myself that we have pulled the wires so as to 
keep the thing out of the papers as much as pos¬ 
sible. We don’t want to frighten the quarry till 
the net is spread. The point is, though, to find 
out who is the quarry. It’s most baffling.” 

“I am at your service,” interposed Craig 
quietly, “but you will have to enlighten me as to 
the facts in the case. As to that, I know no more 
than the newspapers.” 

“Oh, certainly, certainly. That is to say, you 
know nothing at all and can approach it without 
bias.” He paused and then, seeming to notice 
something in Craig’s manner, added hastily: “I’ll 
be perfectly frank with you. The policy in ques¬ 
tion is for one hundred thousand dollars, and is in¬ 
contestable. His wife is the beneficiary. Thei 
company is perfectly willing to pay, but we want 
to be sure that it is all straight first. There are 
certain suspicious circumstances that in justice 
to ourselves we think should be cleared up. That 
is all—believe me. We are not seeking to avoid 
an honest liability.” 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 159 

“What are these suspicious circumstances! 9 * 
asked Craig, apparently satisfied with the expla¬ 
nation. 

“This is in strict confidence, gentlemen,” be¬ 
gan Mr. Andrews. “Mr. Morowitch, according 
to the story as it comes to us, returned home late 
one night last week, apparently from his office, 
in a very weakened, a semi-conscious, condition. 
His family physician, Doctor Thornton, was sum¬ 
moned, not at once, but shortly. He pronounced 
Mr. Morowitch to be suffering from a congestion 
of the lungs that was very like a sudden attack of 
pneumonia. 

“Mr. Morowitch had at once gone to bed, or at 
least was in bed, when the doctor arrived, hut his 
condition grew worse so rapidly that the doctor 
hastily resorted to oxygen, under which treatment 
he seemed to revive. The doctor had just 
stepped out to see another patient when a hurry 
call was sent to him that Mr. Morowitch was rap¬ 
idly sinking. He died before the doctor could re¬ 
turn. No statement whatever concerning the 
cause of his sudden illness was made by Mr. 
Morowitch, and the death-certificate, a copy of 
which I have, gives pneumonia as the cause of 
death. One of our men has seen Doctor Thorn¬ 
ton, but has been able to get nothing out of him. 
Mrs. Morowitch was the only person with her 
husband at the time.” 

There was something in his tone that made me? 


160 THE SILENT BULLET 

take particular note of this last fact, especially 
as he paused for an instant. 

“Now, perhaps there would he nothing sur¬ 
prising about it all, so far at least, were it not 
for the fact that the following morning, when his 
junior partner, Mr. Kahan, opened the place of 
business, or rather went to it, for it was to re- 
. main closed, of course, he found that during the 
night someone had visited it. The lock on the 
great safe, which contained thousands of dollars’ 
worth of diamonds, was intact; but in the top of 
the safe a huge hole was found—an irregular, 
round hole, big enough to put your foot through. 
Imagine it, Professor Kennedy, a great hole in a 
safe that is made of chrome steel, a safe that, 
short of a safety-deposit vault, ought to be about 
the strongest thing on earth. 

“Why, that steel would dull and splinter even 
the finest diamond-drill before it made an impres¬ 
sion. The mere taking out and refitting of drills 
into the brace would be a most lengthy process. 
Eighteen or twenty hours is the time by actual 
test which it would take to bore such a hole 
through those laminated plates, even if there were 
means of exerting artificial pressure. As for the 
police, they haven’t even a theory yet.” 

“And the diamonds?” 

“All gone—everything of any value was gone. 
Even the letter-files were ransacked. His desk 
was broken open, and papers of some nature had 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 161 

been taken out of it. Thorough is no name for 
the job. Isn’t that enough to arouse suspicion?” 

“I should like to see that safe,” was all Ken¬ 
nedy said. 

“So you shall, so you shall,” said Mr. An¬ 
drews. “Then we may retain you in our service? 
My car is waiting down-stairs. We can go right 
down to Maiden Lane if you wish.” 

“You may retain me on one condition,” said 
Craig without moving. “I am to be free to get 
at the truth whether it benefits or hurts the com¬ 
pany, and the case is to be entirely in my hands.” 

“Hats on,” agreed Mr. Andrews, reaching in 
his vest pocket and pulling out three or four 
brevas. “My chauffeur is quite a driver. He 
can almost beat the subway down.” 

“First, to my laboratory,” interposed Craig. 
“It will take only a few minutes.” 

We drove up to the university and stopped on 
the campus while Craig hurried into the Chem¬ 
istry Building to get something. 

“I like your professor of criminal science,” 
said Andrews to me, blowing a huge fragrant 
cloud of smoke. 

I, for my part, liked the vice-president. He 
was a man who seemed thoroughly to enjoy life, 
to have most of the good things, and a capacity 
for getting out of them all that was humanly pos¬ 
sible. He seemed to be particularly enjoying 
this Morowitch case. 


162 THE SILENT BULLET 

“He has solved some knotty cases,’’ was all I 
said. “I’ve come to believe there is no limit to 
his resourcefulness.” 

“I hope not. He’s up against a tough one this 
trip, though, my boy.” 

I did not even resent the “my boy.” Andrews 
was one of those men in whom we newspaper 
writers instinctively believe. I knew that it 
would be “pens lifted” only so long as the case 
was incomplete. When the time comes with such 
men they are ready to furnish us the best “copy” 
in the world. 

Kennedy qujckly rejoined us, carrying a couple 
of little glass bottles with ground-glass stoppers. 

Morowitch & Co. was, of course, closed when we 
arrived, but we had no trouble in being admitted 
by the Central Office man who had been detailed 
to lock the barn door after the horse was stolen. 
It was precisely as Mr. Andrews had said. Mr. 
Kahan showed us the safe. Through the top a 
great hole had been made—I say made, for at the 
moment I was at a loss to know whether it had 
been cut, drilled, burned, blown out, or what-not. 

Kennedy examined the edges of the hole care¬ 
fully, and just the trace of a smile of satisfaction 
flitted over his face as he did so. Without say¬ 
ing a word he took the glass stopper out of the 
larger bottle which he had brought and poured 
the contents on the top of the safe near the hole. 
There it lay, a little mound of reddish powder. 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 163 

Kennedy took a little powder of another kind 
from the other bottle and lighted it with a match. 

“Stand back—close to the wall,” he called as 
he dropped the burning mass on the red powder. 
In two or three leaps he joined ns at the far end 
of the room. 

Almost instantly a dazzling, intense flame broke 
ont, and sizzled and crackled. With bated breath 
we watched. It was almost incredible, but that 
glowing mass of powder seemed literally to be 
sinking, sinking right down into the cold steel. 
In tense silence we waited. On the ceiling we 
could still see the reflection of the molten mass in 
the cup which it had burned for itself in the top 
of the safe. 

At last it fell through into the safe—fell as the 
burning roof of a frame building would fall into 
the building. No one spoke a word, but as we 
cautiously peered over the top of the safe we in¬ 
stinctively turned to Kennedy for an explanation. 
The Central Office man, with eyes as big as half- 
dollars, acted almost as if he would have liked to 
clap the irons on Kennedy. For there in the top 
of the safe was another hole, smaller but identical 
in nature with the first one. 

“Thermit,” was all Kennedy said. 

“Thermit!” echoed Andrews, shifting the 
cigar which he had allowed to go out in the ex¬ 
citement. 

“Yes, an invention of a chemist named Gold- 


164 THE SILENT BULLET 

schmidt, of Essen, Germany. It is a compound 
of iron oxide, such as comes off a blacksmith’s 
anvil or the rolls of a rolling-mill, and powdered 
metallic aluminum. You could thrust a red-hot 
bar into it without setting it off, but when you 
light a little magnesium powder and drop it on 
thermit, a combustion is started that quickly 
reaches fifty-four hundred degrees Fahrenheit. 
It has the peculiar property of concentrating its 
heat to the immediate spot on which it is placed. 
It is one of the most powerful oxidising agents 
known, and it doesn’t even melt the rest of the 
steel surface. You see how it ate its way through 
the steel. Either black or red thermit will do the 
trick equally well.” 

No one said anything. There was nothing to 
say. 

“ Someone uncommonly clever, or instructed 
by someone uncommonly clever, must have done 
that job,” added Craig. “Well, there is nothing 
more to be done here,” he added, after a cursory 
look about the office. “Mr. Andrews, may I have 
a word with you? Come on, Jameson. Good 
day, Mr. Kahan. Good day, Officer.” 

Outside we stopped for a moment at the door 
of Andrews’s car. 

“I shall want to see Mr. Morowitch’s papers 
at home,” said Craig, “and also to call on Doctor 
Thornton. Do you think I shall have any diffi¬ 
culty?” 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 


165 


“Not at all,” replied Mr. Andrews, “not at all. 
I will go with you myself and see that you have 
none. Say, Professor Kennedy,” he broke out, 
“that was marvellous. I never dreamed such a 
thing was possible. But don’t you think you 
could have learned something more up there in 
the office by looking around!” 

“I did learn it,” answered Kennedy. “The 
lock on the door was intact—whoever did the job 
let himself in by a key. There is no other way 
to get in.” 

Andrews gave a low whistle and glanced in¬ 
voluntarily up at the window with the sign of 
Morowitch & Co. in gold letters several floors 
above. 

“Don’t look up. I think that was Kahan look¬ 
ing out at us,” he said, fixing his eyes on his 
cigar. “I wonder if he knows more about this 
than he has told! He was the ‘company,’ you 
know, but his interest in the business was only 
very slight. By George—” 

“Not too fast, Mr. Andrews,” interrupted 
Craig. “We have still to see Mrs. Morowitch 
and the doctor before we form any theories.” 

“A very handsome woman, too,” said An¬ 
drews, as we seated ourselves in the car, “A 
good deal younger than Morowitch. Say, Kahan 
isn’t a bad-looking chap, either, is he! I hear he 
was a very frequent visitor at his partner’s house. 
Well, which first, Mrs. M. or the doctor!” 


166 THE SILENT BULLET 

“The house,” answered Craig. 

Mr. Andrews introduced us to Mrs. Morowitch, 
who was in very deep mourning, which served, as 
I could not help noticing, rather to heighten than 
lessen her beauty. By contrast it brought out the 
rich deep colour of her face and the graceful lines 
of her figure. She was altogether a very attract¬ 
ive young widow. 

She seemed to have a sort of fear of Andrews, 
whether merely because he represented the in¬ 
surance company on which so much depended or 
because there were other reasons for fear, I could 
not, of course, make out. Andrews was very 
courteous and polite, yet I caught myself asking 
if it was not a professional rather than a per¬ 
sonal politeness. Remembering his stress on the 
fact that she was alone with her husband when he 
died, it suddenly flashed across my mind that 
somewhere I had read of a detective who, as his 
net was being woven about a victim, always grew 
more and more ominously polite toward the vic¬ 
tim. I know that Andrews suspected her of a 
close connection with the case. As for myself, 
I don’t know what I suspected as yet. 

No objection was offered to our request to ex¬ 
amine Mr. Morowitch’s personal effects in the 
library, and accordingly Craig ransacked the desk 
and the letter-file. There was practically nothing 
to be discovered. 

“Had Mr. Morowitch ever received any threats 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 167 

of robbery !” asked Craig, as he stood before the 
desk. 

“Not that I know of,” replied Mrs. Morowitch. 
“Of course every jeweller who carries a large 
stock of diamonds must be careful. But I don’t 
think my husband had any special reason to fear 
robbery. At least he never said anything about 
it. Why do you ask!” 

“Oh, nothing. I merely thought there might be 
some hint as to the motives of the robbery,” said 
Craig. He was fingering one of those desk-cal¬ 
endars which have separate leaves for each day 
with blank spaces for appointments. 

“ 6 Close deal Poissan,’ ” he read slowly from 
one of the entries, as if to himself. “That’s 
strange. It was the correspondence under the 
letter ‘P’ that was destroyed at the office, and 
there is nothing in the letter-file here, either. 
Who was Poissan!” 

Mrs. Morowitch hesitated, either from igno¬ 
rance or from a desire to evade the question. “A 
chemist, I think,” she said doubtfully. “My hus. 
band had some dealings with him—some discov¬ 
ery he was going to buy. I don’t know anything 
about it. I thought the deal was off.” 

“The deal!” 

“Really, Mr. Kennedy, you had better ask Mr. 
Kahan. My husband talked very little to me 
about business affairs.” 

“But what was the discovery!” 


168 THE SILENT BULLET 

“I don’t know. I only heard Mr. Morowiteh 
and Mr. Kahan refer to some deal about a discov¬ 
ery regarding diamonds.” 

“Then Mr. Kahan knows about it?” 

“I presume so.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Morowiteh,” said Kennedy 
when it was evident that she either could not or 
would not add anything to what she had said. 
“Pardon us for causing all this trouble.” 

“No trouble at all,” she replied graciously, 
though I could see she was intent on every word 
and motion of Kennedy and Andrews. 

Kennedy stopped the car at a drug-store a few 
blocks away and asked for the business telephone 
>ry. In an instant, under chemists, he put 
ger on the name of Poissan—“Henri Pois- 
lectric furnaces,—William St.,” he read, 
ill visit him to-morrow morning. Now for 
•ctor.” 

tor Thornton was an excellent specimen of 
genus physician to the wealthy—polished, 
uave. One of Mr. Andrews’s men, as I have 
lad seen him already, but the interview had 
been very unsatisfactory. Evidently, however, 
the doctor had been turning something over in his 
mind since then and had thought better of it. At 
any rate, his manner was cordial enough now. 

As he closed the doors to his office, he began to 
pace the floor. “Mr. Andrews,” he said, “I am 
in some doubt whether I had better tell you or 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 169 

the coroner what I know. There are certain pro¬ 
fessional secrets that a doctor mnst, as a duty to 
his patients, conceal. That is professional ethics. 
But there are also cases when, as a matter of pub¬ 
lic policy, a doctor should speak out.” 

He stopped and faced us. 

4 4 1 don’t mind telling you that I dislike the pub¬ 
licity that would attend any statement I might 
make to the coroner.” 

44 Exactly,” said Andrews. 44 I appreciate your 
position exactly. Your other patients would not 
care to see you involved in a scandal—or at least 
you would not care to have them see you so in¬ 
volved, with all the newspaper notoriety such a: 
thing brings.” 

Doctor Thornton shot a quick glance at "An¬ 
drews, as if he would like to know just how 
his visitor knew or suspected. 

Andrews drew a paper from his pocket. 4 
is a copy of the death-certificate, ” he 
4 4 The Board of Health has furnished it t 
Our physicians at the insurance company te 
it is rather extraordinary—vague. A word 
us calling the attention of the proper autho 
to it would be sufficient, I think. But, Di_ . 
that is just the point. We do not desire publicity 
any more than you do. We could have the body 
of Mr. Morowitch exhumed and examined, but I 
prefer to get the facts in the case without resort¬ 
ing to such extreme measures. ’ ’ 


170 THE SILENT BULLET 

“It would do no good,” interrupted the doctor 
hastily. “And if you’ll save me the publicity, 
I’ll tell you why.” 

Andrews nodded, hut still held the death-cer¬ 
tificate where the doctor was constantly reminded 
of it. 

“In that certificate I have put down the cause 
of death as congestion of the lungs due to an 
acute attack of pneumonia. That is substantially 
correct, as far as it goes. When I was summoned 
to see Mr. Morowitch I found him in a semi-con¬ 
scious state and scarcely breathing. Mrs. Moro¬ 
witch told me that he had been brought home in a 
taxicab by a man who had picked him up on Wil¬ 
liam Street. I’m frank to say that at first sight 
I thought it was a case of plain intoxication, for 
Mr. Morowitch sometimes indulged a little freely 
V^Jien he made a splendid deal. I smelled his 
breath, which was very feeble. It had a sickish 
sweet odour, but that did not impress me at the 
time. I applied my stethoscope to his lungs. 
There was a very marked congestion, and I made 
as my working diagnosis pneumonia. It was a 
case for quick and heroic action. In a very few 
minutes I had a tank of oxygen from the hospi¬ 
tal. 

“In the meantime I had thought over that 
sweetish odour, and it flashed on my mind that it 
might, after all, be a case of poisoning. When 
the oxygen arrived I administered it at once. As 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 171 

It happens, the Rockefeller Institute has jnst pub¬ 
lished a report of experiments with a new anti¬ 
dote for various poisons, which consists simply 
in a new method of enforced breathing and throw¬ 
ing off the poison by oxidising it in that way. In 
either case—the pneumonia theory or the poison 
theory—this line of action was the best that I 
could have adopted on the spur of the moment. I 
gave him some strychnin to strengthen his heart 
and by hard work I had him resting apparently a 
little easier. A nurse had been sent for, but had 
not arrived when a messenger came to me telling 
of a very sudden illness of Mrs. Morey, the wife 
of the steel-magnate. As the Morey home is only 
a half-block away, I left Mr. Moro witch, with 
very particular instructions to his wife as to what 
to do. 

“I had intended to return immediately, but be¬ 
fore I got back Mr. Morowitch was dead. Now 
I think I’ve told you all. You see, it was nothing 
but a suspicion—hardly enough to warrant mak¬ 
ing a fuss about. I made out the death-certifi¬ 
cate, as you see. Probably that would have been 
all there was to it if I hadn’t heard of this incom¬ 
prehensible robbery. That set me thinking 
again. There, I’m glad I’ve got it out of my 
system. I’ve thought about it a good deal since 
your man was here to see me.” 

‘ 1 What do you suspect was the cause of that 
sweetish odour?” asked Kennedy. 


172 


THE SILENT BULLET 

The doctor hesitated. ‘ 6 Mind, it is only a sus¬ 
picion. Cyanide of potassium or cyanogen gas; 
either would give such an odour.” 

“Your treatment would have been just the 
same had you been certain?” 

“Practically the same, the Rockefeller treat¬ 
ment.” 

“Could it have been suicide?” asked Andrews. 

“There was no motive for it, I believe,” re¬ 
plied the doctor. 

“But was there any such poison in the Moro- 
witch house?” 

“I know that they were much interested in pho¬ 
tography. Cyanide of potassium is used in cer¬ 
tain processes in photography. ” 

“Who was interested in photography, Mr. or 
Mrs. Morowitch?” 

“Both of them.” 

“Was Mrs. Morowitch?” 

“Both of them,” repeated the doctor hastily. 
It was evident how Andrews’s questions were 
tending, and it was also evident that the doctor 
did not wish to commit himself or even to be mis¬ 
understood. 

Kennedy had sat silently for some minutes, 
turning the thing over in his mind. Apparently 
disregarding Andrews entirely, he now asked, 
“Doctor, supposing it had been cyanogen gas 
which caused the congestion of the lungs, and sup¬ 
posing it had not been inhaled in quantities large 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 173 

enough to kill outright, do you nevertheless feel 
that Mr. Morowitch was in a weak enough con¬ 
dition to die as a result of the congestion pro¬ 
duced by the gas after the traces of the cyanogen 
had been perhaps thrown oft ?” 

“That is precisely the impression which I 
wished to convey.” 

“Might I ask whether in his semi-conscious 
state he said anything that might at all serve as 
a clue!” 

“He talked ramblingly, incoherently. As near 
as I can remember it, he seemed to believe him¬ 
self to have become a millionaire, a billionaire. 
He talked of diamonds, diamonds, diamonds. He 
seemed to be picking them up, running his fingers 
through them, and once I remember he seemed to 
want to send for Mr. Kahan and tell him some¬ 
thing. ‘I can make them, Kahan,’ he said, ‘the 
finest, the largest, the whitest—I can make 
them.’ ” 

Kennedy was all attention as Dr. Thornton 
added this new evidence. 

“You know,” concluded the doctor, “that in 
cyanogen poisoning there might be hallucinations 
of the wildest kind. But then, too, in the delirium 
of pneumonia it might be the same.” 

I could see by the way Kennedy acted that fon 
the first time a ray of light had dawned upon him 
in tracing out the case. As we rose to go, the 
doctor shook hands with us. His last words were 


174 THE SILENT BULLET 

said with an air of great relief, “Gentlemen, I 
have eased my conscience considerably. ’ ’ 

As we parted for the night Kennedy faced An¬ 
drews. “Yon recall that you promised me one 
thing when I took up this case ?’’ he asked. 

Andrews nodded. 

“Then take no steps until I tell you. Shadow 
Mrs. Morowitch and Mr. Kahan, hut do not let 
them know you suspect them of anything. Let 
me run down this Poissan clue. In other words, 
leave the case entirely in my hands in other re¬ 
spects. Let me know any now facts you may un¬ 
earth, and some time to-morrow I shall call on 
you, and we will determine what the next step is 
to be. Good night. I want to thank you for put¬ 
ting me in the way of this case. I think we shall 
all he surprised at the outcome.” 

It was late the following afternoon before I 
saw Kennedy again. He was in his laboratory 
winding two strands of platinum wire carefully 
about a piece of porcelain and smearing on it 
some peculiar black glassy granular substance 
that came in a sort of pencil, like a stick of seal¬ 
ing-wax. I noticed that he was very particular 
to keep the two wires exactly the same distance 
from each other throughout the entire length of 
the piece of porcelain, but I said nothing to dis¬ 
tract his attention, though a thousand questions 
about the progress of the case were at my 
tongue’s end. 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 


175 


Instead I watched him intently. The black sub¬ 
stance formed a sort of bridge connecting and 
covering the wires. When he had finished he 
said: “Now yon can ask me your questions, while 
I heat and anneal this little contrivance. I see 
you are bursting with curiosity.” 

“Well, did you see Poissan?” I asked. 

Kennedy continued to heat the wire-covered 
porcelain. “I did, and he is going to give me a 
demonstration of his discovery to-night.” 

“His discovery?” 

“You remember Morowitch’s * hallucination/" 
as the doctor called it? That was no hallucina¬ 
tion ; that was a reality. This man Poissan says 
he has discovered a way to make diamonds arti¬ 
ficially out of pure carbon in an electric furnace. 
Morowitch, I believe, was to buy his secret. His 
dream of millions was a reality—at least to 
him. ’ 9 

“And did Kahan and Mrs. Morowitch know 
it?” I asked quickly. 

“I don’t know yet,” replied Craig, finishing 
the annealing. 

The black glassy substance was now a dull 
grey. 

“What’s that stuff you were putting on the 
wire?” I asked. 

“Oh, just a by-product made in the manufac¬ 
ture of sulphuric acid,” answered Kennedy airily, 
adding, as if to change the subject: “I want you 


176 


THE SILENT BULLET 

to go with me to-night. I told Poissan I was a 
professor in the university and that I would bring 
one of our younger trustees, the son of the banker, 
T. Pierpont Spencer, who might put some capital 
into his scheme. Now, Jameson, while I’m fin¬ 
ishing up my work here, run over to the apart¬ 
ment and get my automatic revolver. I may need 
it to-night. I have communicated with Andrews, 
and he will be ready. The demonstration will 
take place at half-past-eight at Poissan’s labora¬ 
tory. I tried to get him to give it here, but he 
absolutely refused.” 

Half an hour later I rejoined Craig at his lab¬ 
oratory, and we rode down to the Great Eastern 
Life Building. 

Andrews was waiting for us in his solidly fur¬ 
nished office. Outside I noted a couple of husky 
men, who seemed to be waiting for orders from 
their chief. 

From the manner in which the vice-president 
greeted us it was evident that he was keenly in¬ 
terested in what Kennedy was about to do. “So 
you think Morowitch’s deal was a deal to pur¬ 
chase the secret of diamond-making?” he mused. 

“I feel sure of it,” replied Craig. “I felt sure 
of it the moment I looked up Poissan and found 
that he was a manufacturer of electric furnaces. 
Don’t you remember the famous Lemoine case in 
London and Paris?” 

“Yes, but Lemoine was a fakir of the first 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 177 

water,” said Andrews. “Do yon think this man 
is, too?” 

“That’s what I’m going to find out to-night 
before I take another step,” said Craig. “Of 
course there can be no doubt that by proper nse 
the electric furnace will make small, almost mi¬ 
croscopic diamonds. It is not unreasonable to 
suppose that some day someone will be able to 
make large diamonds synthetically by the same 
process.” 

“Maybe this man has done it,” agreed An¬ 
drews. “Who knows? I’ll wager that if he has 
and that if Morowitch had bought an interest in 
his process Kahan knew of it. He’s a sharp one. 
And Mrs. Morowitch doesn’t let grass grow under 
her feet, when it comes to seeing the main chance 
as to money. Now just supposing Mr. Moro¬ 
witch had bought an interest in a secret like that 
and supposing Kahan was in love with Mrs. 
Morowitch and that they—” 

“Let us suppose nothing, Mr. Andrews,” in¬ 
terrupted Kennedy. “At least not yet. Let me 
see; it is now ten minutes after eight. Poissan’s 
place is only a few blocks from here. I’d like to 
get there a few minutes early. Let’s start.” 

As we left the office, Andrews signalled to the 
two men outside, and they quietly followed a few 
feet in the rear, but without seeming to be with 
us. 

Poissan’s laboratory was at the top of a sort 


178 THE SILENT BULLET 

of loft building a dozen stories or so high. It 
was a peculiar building, with several entrances 
besides a freight-elevator at the rear and fire-es¬ 
capes that led to adjoining lower roofs. 

We stopped around the corner in the shadow, 
and Kennedy and Andrews talked earnestly. 
As near as I could make out Kennedy was insist¬ 
ing that it would be best for Andrews and his 
men not to enter the building at all, but wait 
down-stairs while he and I went up. At last the 
arrangement was agreed on. 

“Here,” said Kennedy, undoing a package he 
had carried, “is a little electric bell with a couple 
of fresh dry batteries attached to it, and wires 
that will reach at least four hundred feet. You 
and the men wait in the shadow here by this side 
entrance for five minutes after Jameson and I go 
up. Then you must engage the night watchman 
in some way. While he is away you will find two 
wires dangling down the elevator shaft. Attach 
them to these wires from the bell and the batteries 
-—these two—you know how to do that. The 
wires will be hanging in the third shaft—only 
one elevator is running at night, the first. The 
moment you hear the bell begin to ring, jump into 
the elevator and come up to the twelfth floor— 
we’ll need you.” 

As Kennedy and I rode up in the eleVator I 
could not help thinking what an ideal place a 
down-town office-building is for committing a 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 179 

crime, even at this early hour of the evening. If 
the streets were deserted, the office-buildings were 
positively uncanny in their grim, black silence 
with only here and there a light. 

The elevator in the first shaft shot down again 
to the ground floor, and as it disappeared Ken¬ 
nedy took two spools of wire from his pocket and 
hastily shoved them through the lattice work of 
the third elevator shaft. They quickly unrolled, 
and I could hear them strike the top of the empty 
car below in the basement. That meant that An¬ 
drews on the ground floor could reach the wires 
and attach them to the bell. 

Quickly in the darkness Kennedy attached the 
ends of Ihe wires to the curious little coil I had 
seen him working on in the laboratory, and we 
proceeded down the hall to the rooms occupied by 
Poissan. Kennedy had allowed for the wire to 
reach from the elevator-shaft up this hall, also, 
and as he walked he paid it out in such a manner 
that it fell on the floor close to the wall, where, 
in the darkness, it would never be noticed or 
stumbled over. 

Around an “L” in the hall I could see a ground- 
glass window with a light shining through it. 
Kennedy stopped at the window and quickly 
placed the little coil on the ledge, close up against 
the glass, with the wires running from it down 
the hall. Then we entered. 

“On time to the minute, Professor,” exclaimed 


180 THE SILENT BULLET 

Poissan, snapping his watch. “And this, I pre¬ 
sume, is the banker who is interested in my great 
discovery of making artificial diamonds of any 
size or colour !” he added, indicating me. 

“Yes,” answered Craig, “as I told you, a son 
of Mr. T. Pierpont Spencer.” 

I shook hands with as much dignity as I could 
assume, for the role of impersonation was a new 
one to me. 

Kennedy carelessly laid his coat and hat on 
the inside ledge of the ground-glass window, just 
opposite the spot where he had placed the little 
coil on the other side of the glass. I noted that 
the window was simply a large pane of wire-glass 
set in the wall for the purpose of admitting light 
in the daytime from the hall outside. 

The whole thing seemed eerie to me—especially 
as Poissan’s assistant was a huge fellow and had 
an evil look such as I had seen in pictures of 
the inhabitants of quarters of Paris which one 
does not frequent except in the company of a 
safe guide. I was glad Kennedy had brought his 
revolver, and rather vexed that he had not told 
me to do likewise. However, I trusted that 
Craig knew what he was about. 

We seated ourselves some distance from a 
table on which was a huge, plain, oblong con¬ 
trivance that reminded me of the diagram of a 
parallelopiped which had caused so much trouble 
in my solid geometry at college. 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 181 

u That’s the electric furnace, sir,” said Craig 
to me with an assumed deference, becoming a 
college professor explaining things to the son of 
a great financier. “You see the electrodes at 
either end! When the current is turned on and 
led through them into the furnace you can get 
the most amazing temperatures in the crucible. 
The most refractory of chemical compounds can 
be broken up by that heat. What is the highest 
temperature you have attained, Professor?” 

“Something over three thousand degrees Cen¬ 
tigrade,” replied Poissan, as he and his assistant 
busied themselves about the furnace. 

We sat watching him in silence. 

“Ah, gentlemen, now I am ready,” he ex¬ 
claimed at length, when everything was arranged 
to his satisfaction. “You see, here is a lump of 
sugar carbon—pure amorphous carbon. Dia¬ 
monds, as you know, are composed of pure car¬ 
bon crystallised under enormous pressure. Now, 
my theory is that if we can combine an enormous 
pressure and an enormous heat we can make dia¬ 
monds artificially. The problem of pressure is 
the thing, for here in the furnace we have the 
necessary heat. It occurred to me that when 
molten cast iron cools it exerts a tremendous 
pressure. That pressure is what I use.” 

“You know, Spencer, solid iron floats on mol¬ 
ten iron like solid water—ice—floats on liquid 
water,” explained Craig to me. 


182 THE SILENT BULLET 

Poissan nodded. “I take this sugar carbon 
and place it in this soft iron cup. Then I screw 
on this cap over the cup, so. Now I place this 
mass of iron scraps in the crucible of the furnace 
and start the furnace.’’ 

He turned a switch, and long yellowish-blue 
sheets of flame spurted out from the electrodes 
on either side. It was weird, gruesome. One 
could feel the heat of the tremendous electric dis¬ 
charge. 

As I looked at the bluish-yellow flames they 
gradually changed to a beautiful purple, and a 
sickish sweet odour filled the room. The furnace 
roared at first, but as the vapors increased it be¬ 
came a better conductor of the electricity, and the 
roaring ceased. 

In almost no time the mass of iron scraps be¬ 
came molten. Suddenly Poissan plunged the 
cast-iron cup into the seething mass. The cup 
floated and quickly began to melt. As it did so 
he waited attentively until the proper moment. 
Then with a deft motion he seized the whole thing 
with a long pair of tongs and plunged it into a 
vat of running water. A huge cloud of steam 
filled the room. 

I felt a drowsy sensation stealing over me as 
the sickish sweet smell from the furnace in¬ 
creased. Gripping the chair, I roused myself 
and watched Poissan attentively. He was work¬ 
ing rapidly. "As the molten mass cooled and 


THE DIAMOND MAKEE 183 

solidified he took it out of the water and laid it 
on an anvil. 

Then his assistant began to hammer it with 
careful, sharp blows, chipping off the outside. 

“You see, we have to get down to the core of 
carbon gently,” he,said, as he picked up the little 
pieces of iron and threw them into a scrap-box. 
“First rather brittle cast iron, then hard iron, 
then iron and carbon, then some black diamonds, 
and in the very centre the diamonds. 

“Ah! we are getting to them. Here is a small 
diamond. See, Mr. Spencer—gently Francois—- 
we shall come to the large ones presently.” 

“One moment, Professor Poissan,” inter¬ 
rupted Craig; “let your assistant break them out 
while I stand over him.” 

“Impossible. You would not know when you 
saw them. They are just rough stones.” 

“Oh, yes, I would.” 

“No, stay where you are. Unless I attend to 
it the diamonds might be ruined.” 

There was something peculiar about his insis¬ 
tence, but after he picked out the next diamond 
I was hardly prepared for Kennedy’s next re¬ 
mark. 

“Let me see the palms of your hands.” 

Poissan shot an angry glance at Kennedy, but 
he did not open his hands. 

“I merely wish to convince you, Mr. Spencer,” 
said Kennedy to me, “that it is no sleight-of- 


184 THE SILENT BULLET 

hand trick and that the professor has not several 
uncut stones palmed in his hand like a presti¬ 
digitator.” 

The Frenchman faced us, his face livid with 
rage. “You call me a prestidigitator, a fraud— 
you shall sutler for that! Sacrebleu! Ventre du 
Saint Gris! No man ever insults the honour of 
Poissan. Francois, water on the electrodes!” 

The assistant dashed a few drops of water on 
the electrodes. The sickish odour increased tre¬ 
mendously. I felt myself almost going, but with 
an effort I again roused myself. I wondered 
how Craig stood the fumes, for I suffered an in¬ 
tense headache and nausea. 

“Stop!” Craig thundered. “There’s enough 
cyanogen in this room already. I know your 
game—the water forms acetylene with the car¬ 
bon, and that uniting with the nitrogen of the 
air under the terrific heat of the electric arc forms 
hydrocyanic acid. Would you poison us, too? 
Do you think you can put me unconscious out on 
the street and have a society doctor diagnose my 
case as pneumonia? Or do you think we shall die 
quietly in some hospital as a certain New York 
banker did last year after he had watched an al¬ 
chemist make silver out of apparently nothing?” 

The effect on Poissan was terrible. He ad¬ 
vanced toward Kennedy, the veins in his face 
fairly standing out. Shaking his forefinger, he- 
shouted: “You know that, do you? You are no 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 185 

professor, and this is no banker. Yon are spies, 
spies. Yon come from the friends of Moro- 
witch, do yon? Yon have gone too far with me.” 

Kennedy said nothing, but retreated and took 
his coat and hat off the window ledge. The hide¬ 
ous penetrating light of the tongues of flame from 
the furnace played on the ground-glass window. 

Poissan laughed a hollow laugh. 

“Put down your hat and coat, Mistair Ken¬ 
nedy,’ 9 he hissed. “The door has been locked 
ever since you have been here. Those windows 
are barred, the telephone wire is cut, and it is 
three hundred feet to the street. We shall leave 
you here when the fumes have overcome you. 
Frangois and I can stand them up to a point, and 
when we reach that point we are going.” 

Instead of being cowed Kennedy grew bolder, 
though I, for my part, felt so weakened that I 
feared the outcome of a hand-to-hand encounter 
with either Poissan or Frangois, who appeared 
as fresh as if nothing had happened. They were 
hurriedly preparing to leave us. 

“That would do you no good,” Kennedy re¬ 
joined, “for we have no safe full of jewels for 
you to rob. There are no keys to offices to be 
stolen from our pockets. And let me tell you— 
you are not the only man in New York who knows 
the secret of thermit. I have told the secret to 
the police, and they are only waiting to find who 
destroyed Morowitch’s correspondence under the 


186 


THE SILENT BULLET 


letter ‘P’ to apprehend the robber of his safe. 
Your secret is out.” 

“Revenge! revenge!” Poissan cried. “I will 
Lave revenge. Francois, bring out the jewels—• 
ha! ha!—here in this bag are the jewels of Mr. 
Morowitch. To-night Francois and I will go 
down by the back elevator to a secret exit. In 
two hours all your police in New York cannot 
find us. But in two hours you two impostors 
will be suffocated—perhaps you will die of cyan¬ 
ogen, like Morowitch, whose jewels I have at 
last.” 

He went to the door into the hall and stood 
there with a mocking laugh. I moved to make 
a rush toward them, but Kennedy raised his hand. 

“You will suffocate,” Poissan hissed again. 

Just then we heard the elevator door clang, and 
hurried steps came down the long hall. 

Craig whipped out his automatic and began 
pumping the bullets out in rapid succession. As 
the smoke cleared I expected to see Poissan and 
Frangois lying on the floor. Instead, Craig had 
fired at the lock of the door. He had shattered 
it into a thousand bits. Andrews and his men 
were running down the hall. 

“Curse you!” muttered Poissan as he banged 
the now useless lock, “who let those fellows inf 
Are you a wizard?” 

Craig smiled coolly as the ventilation cleared 
(the room of the deadly cyanogen. 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 


187 


“On the window-sill ontside is a selenium cell. 
Selenium is a bad conductor of electricity in the 
dark, and an excellent conductor when exposed 
to light. I merely moved my coat and hat, and 
the light from the furnace which was going to 
suffocate us played through the glass on the cell, 
the circuit was completed without your suspect¬ 
ing that I could communicate with friends out¬ 
side, a bell was rung on the street, and here they 
are. Andrews, there is the murderer of Moro- 
witch, and there in his hands are the Moro- 
witch—” 

Poissan had moved toward the furnace. With 
a quick motion he seized the long tongs. There 
was a cloud of choking vapour. Kennedy leaped 
to the switch and shut off the current. With the 
tongs he lifted out a shapeless piece of valueless 
black graphite. 

“All that is left of the priceless Morowitch 
jewels,’’ he exclaimed ruefully. “But we have 
the murderer.” 

“And to-morrow a certified check for one hun¬ 
dred thousand dollars goes to Mrs. Morowitch 
with my humblest apologies and sympathy,” 
added Andrews. “Professor Kennedy, you have 
earned your retainer.” 


YTI 


THE AZURE RIHG 

Files of newspapers and innumerable clippings 
from tbe press bureaus littered Kennedy’s desk 
in rank profusion. Kennedy himself was so 
deeply absorbed that I had merely said good¬ 
evening as I came in and had started to open 
my mail. With an impatient sweep of his hand,, 
however, he brushed the whole mass of news¬ 
papers into the waste-basket. 

“It seems to me, Walter,” he exclaimed in 
disgust, “that this mystery is considered insol¬ 
uble for the very reason which should make it 
easy to solve—the extraordinary character of its 
features.” 

Inasmuch as he had opened the subject, I laid 
down the letter I was reading. “I’ll wager I can 
tell you just why you made that remark, Craig,” 
I ventured. “You’re reading up on that Wain- 
wright-Templeton affair.” 

“You are on the road to becoming a detective 
yourself, Walter,” he answered with a touch of 
sarcasm. “Your ability to add two units to two 
other units and obtain four units is almost 
worthy of Inspector O’Connor. You are right, 

18S 


THE AZURE RING 189 

and within a quarter of an hour the district at¬ 
torney of Westchester County will he here. He 
telephoned me this afternoon and sent an as¬ 
sistant with this mass of dope. I suppose he’ll 
want it back,” he added, fishing the newspapers 
out of the basket again. “But, with all due re¬ 
spect to your profession, I’ll say that no one 
would ever get on speaking terms with the solu¬ 
tion of this case if he had to depend solely on 
the newspaper writers.” 

, “No?” I queried, rather nettled at his tone. 

“No,” he repeated emphatically. “Here one 
of the most popular girls in the fashionable 
suburb of Williston, and one of the leading 
younger members of the bar in New York, en¬ 
gaged to be married, are found dead in the li¬ 
brary of the girl’s home the day before the cere¬ 
mony. And now, a week later, no one knows 
whether it was an accident due to the fumes from 
the antique charcoal-brazier, or whether it was 
a double suicide, or suicide and murder, or a 
double murder, or—or—why, the experts haven’t 
;even been able to agree on whether they have dis¬ 
covered poison or not,” he continued, growing 
as excited as the city editor did over my first 
attempt as a cub reporter. 

“They haven’t agreed on anything except that 
on the eve of what was, presumably, to have been 
the happiest day of their lives two of the best 
known members of the younger set are found 


190 THE SILENT BULLET 

dead, while absolutely no one, as far as is known, 
can be proved to have been near them within the 
time necessary to murder them. No wonder the 
coroner says it is simply a case of asphyxiation. 
No wonder the district attorney is at his wits’ 
end. You fellows have hounded them with your 
hypotheses until they can’t see the facts straight. 
You suggest one solution and before—” 

The door-bell sounded insistently, and without 
waiting for an answer a tall, spare, loose-jointed 
individual stalked in and laid a green bag on the 
table. 

4 ‘Good evening, Professor Kennedy,” he be¬ 
gan brusquely. “I am District Attorney Whit¬ 
ney, of Westchester. I see you have been read¬ 
ing up on the case. Quite right.” 

“Quite wrong,” answered Craig. “Let me in¬ 
troduce my friend, Mr. Jameson, of the Star. 
Sit down. Jameson knows what I think of the 
way the newspapers have handled this case. 1 
was about to tell him as you came in that I in¬ 
tended to disregard everything that had been 
printed, to start out with you as if it were a fresh 
subject and get the facts at first hand. Let’s 
get right down to business. First tell us just 
how it was that Miss Wainwright and Mr. Tem¬ 
pleton were discovered and by whom.” 

The district attorney loosened the cords of the 
green bag and drew out a bundle of documents. 
‘“I’ll read you the affidavit of the maid who found 


191 


THE AZURE RING 

them,” he said, fingering the documents nerv¬ 
ously. “ You see, John Templeton had left his of¬ 
fice in New York early that afternoon, telling 
his father that he was going to visit Miss Wain- 
wright. He caught the three-twenty train, 
reached Williston all right, walked to the Wain- 
wright house, and, in spite of the bustle of prep¬ 
aration for the wedding, the next day, he spent 
the rest of the afternoon with Miss Wainwright. 
That’s where the mystery begins. They had no 
visitors. At least, the maid who answers the bell 
says they had none. She was busy with the rest 
of the family, and I believe the front door was 
not locked—we don’t lock our doors in Williston, 
except at night.” 

He had found the paper and paused to impress 
these facts on our minds. 

“Mrs. Wainwright and Miss Marian Wain¬ 
wright, the sister, were busy about the house. 
Mrs. Wainwright wished to consult Laura about 
something. She summoned the maid and asked 
if Mr. Templeton and Miss Wainwright were in 
the house. The maid replied that she would see, 
and this is her affidavit. Ahem! I’ll skip the 
legal part: 

“ ‘I knocked at the library door twice, but ob¬ 
taining no answer, I supposed they had gone out 
for a walk or perhaps a ride across country as 
they often did. I opened the door partly and 
looked in. There was a silence in the room, a 


192 THE SILENT BULLET 

strange, queer silence. I opened the door fur¬ 
ther and, looking tward the davenport in the 
corner, I saw Miss Laura and Mr. Templeton in 
such an awkward position. They looked as if 
they had fallen asleep. His head was thrown 
back against the cushions of the davenport, and 
on his face was a most awful look. It was dis¬ 
coloured. Her head had fallen forward on his 
shoulder, sideways, and on her face, too, was the 
same terrible stare and the* same discolouration. 
Their right hands were tightly clasped. 

“ ‘I called to them. They did not answer. 
Then the horrible truth flashed on me. They 
were dead. I felt giddy for a minute, but quickly 
recovered myself, and with a cry for help I rushed 
to Mrs. Wainwright’s room, shrieking that they 
were dead. Mrs. Wainwright fainted. Miss 
Marian called the doctor on the telephone and 
helped us restore her mother. She seemed per¬ 
fectly cool in the tragedy, and I do not know 
what we servants should have done if she had 
not been there to direct us. The house was fran¬ 
tic, and Mr. Wainwright was not at home. 

“ ‘I did not detect any odour when I opened 
the library door. No glasses or bottles or vials 
or other receptacles which could have held poison 
were discovered or removed by me, or to the best 
of my knowledge and belief by anyone else.’ ” 

“What happened next?” asked Craig eagerly. 

“The family physician arrived and sent for 


THE AZURE RING 193 

the coroner immediately, and later for myself* 
Yon see, he thought at once of murder.’’ 

“Rut the coroner, I understand, thinks differ¬ 
ently,” prompted Kennedy. 

“Yes, the coroner has declared the case to he 
accidental. He says that the weight of evidence 
points positively to asphyxiation. Still, how can 
it be asphyxiation? They could have escaped 
from the room at any time; the door was not 
locked. I tell you, in spite of the fact chat the 
tests for poison in their mouths, stomachs, and 
blood have so far revealed nothing, I still believe 
that John Templeton and Laura Wainwright were 
murdered.” 

Kennedy looked at his watch thoughtfully. 
“You have told me just enough to make me want 
to see the coroner himself,” he mused. “If we 
take the next train out to Williston with you, will 
you engage to get us a half-hour talk with him on 
the case, Mr. Whitney?” 

“Surely. But we’ll have to start right away. 
I’ve finished my other business in New York. In¬ 
spector O’Connor—ah, I see you know him—has 
promised to secure the attendance of anyone 
whom I can show to be a material witness in the 
case. Come on, gentlemen: I'll answer your 
other questions on the train.” 

As we settled ourselves in the smoker, Whitney 
remarked in a low voice, “You know, someone 
has said that there is only one thing more diffi- 


194 


TH 


? BULLET 


cult to investij ve than a crime whose 

commission is by complicated circum¬ 
stances and tl m. . me whose perpetration 

is wholly devc istancesJ’ 

“Are you s< this crime is wholly de¬ 

void of circumstances ?” asked Craig. 

“Professor/’ he replied, “l4n not sure of any¬ 
thing in this case. If I were I should not re¬ 
quire your assistance. I would like the credit of 
solving it myself, but it is beyond me. Just 
think of it: so far we haven’t a clue, at least none 
that shows the slightest promise, although we 
have worked night and day for a week. It’s all 
darkness. The facts are so simple that they give 
us nothing to work on. It is like a blank sheet 
of paper.” 

Kennedy said nothing, and the district attorney 
proceeded: “I don’t blame Mr. Nott, the coroner, 
for thinking it an accident. But to my mind, 
some master criminal must have arranged this 
very baffling simplicity of circumstances. You 
recall that the front door was unlocked. This 
person must have entered the house unobserved, 
not a difficult thing to do, for the Wainwright 
house is somewhat isolated. Perhaps this person 
brought along some poison in the form of a bever¬ 
age, and induced the two victims to drink. And 
then, this person must have removed the evidences 
as swiftly as they were brought in and by the 
same door. That, I think, is the only solution.” 


THE AZURE RING 195 

“That is not the only solution. It is one solu¬ 
tion,’ J interrupted Kennedy quietly. 

“Do you think someone in the house did it?” I 
asked quickly. 

“I think,” replied Craig, carefully measuring 
his words, “that if poison was given them it must 
have been by someone they both knew pretty 
well. ’ ’ 

No one said a word, until at last I broke the 
silence. “I know from the gossip of the Star 
office that many Williston people say that Marian 
was very jealous of her sister Laura for captur¬ 
ing the catch of the season. Williston people 
don’t hesitate to hint at it.” 

Whitney produced another document from that 
fertile green bag. It was another affidavit. He 
handed it to us. It was a statement signed by 
Mrs. Wainwright, and read: 

“Before God, my daughter Marian is innocent. 
If you wish to find out all, find out more about 
the past history of Mr. Templeton before he be¬ 
came engaged to Laura. She would never in the 
world have committed suicide. She was too 
bright and cheerful for that, even if Mr. Temple¬ 
ton had been about to break off the engagement. 
My daughters Laura and Marian were always 
treated by Mr. Wainwright and myself exactly 
alike. Of course they had their quarrels, just as 
all sisters do, but there was never, to my certain 
knowledge, a serious disagreement, and I was al- 


196 THE SILENT BULLET 

ways close enough to my girls to know. No, 
Laura was murdered by someone outside.’’ 

Kennedy did not seem to attach much impor¬ 
tance to this statement. "Let us see,” he began 
reflectively. "First, we have a young wo¬ 
man especially attractive and charming in both 
person and temperament. She is just about to 
be married and, if the reports are to be believed, 
there was no cloud on her happiness. Secondly, 
we have a young man whom everyone agrees to 
have been of an ardent, energetic, optimistic 
temperament. He had everything to live for, 
presumably. So far, so good. Everyone who has 
investigated this case, I understand, has tried to 
eliminate the double-suicide and the suicide-and- 
murder theories. That is all right, providing 
the facts are as stated. We shall see, later, when 
we interview the coroner. Now, Mr. Whitney, 
suppose you tell us briefly what you have learned 
about the past history of the two unfortunate 
lovers.” 

"Well, the Wainwrights are an old Westches¬ 
ter family, not very wealthy, but of the real aris¬ 
tocracy of the county. There were only two chil¬ 
dren, Laura and Marian. The Templetons were 
much the same sort of family. The children all 
attended a private school at White Plains, and 
there also they met Schuyler Yanderdyke. These 
four constituted a sort of little aristocracy in the 
school. I mention this, because Yanderdyke 


THE AZURE RING- 197 

later became Laura’s first husband. This mar¬ 
riage with Templeton was a second venture.” 

“How long ago was she divorced?” asked Craig 
attentively. 

“About three years ago. I’m coming to that 
in a moment. The sisters went to college to¬ 
gether, Templeton to law school, and Vanderdyke 
studied civil engineering. Their intimacy was 
pretty well broken up, all except Laura’s and 
Vanderdyke’s. Soon after he graduated he was 
taken into the construction department of the 
Central Railroad by his uncle, who was a vice- 
president, and Laura and he were married. As 
far as I can learn he had been a fellow of con¬ 
vivial habits at college, and about two years after 
their marriage his wife suddenly became aware 
of what had long been well known in Williston, 
that Vanderdyke was paying marked attention to 
a woman named Miss Laporte in New York. 

“No sooner had Laura Vanderdyke learned of 
this intimacy of her husband,” continued Whit¬ 
ney, “than she quietly hired private detectives to 
shadow him, and on their evidence she obtained a 
divorce. The papers were sealed, and she re¬ 
sumed her maiden name. 

“As far as I can find out, Vanderdyke then dis¬ 
appeared from her life. He resigned his position 
with the railroad and joined a party of engineers 
(exploring the upper Amazon. Later he went to 
Venezuela. Miss Laporte also went to South 


198 


THE SILENT BULLET 


America about the same time, and was for a time 
in Venezuela, and later in Peru. 

“Vanderdyke seems to have dropped all his 
early associations completely, though at present 
I find he is back in New York raising capital for 
a company to exploit a new asphalt concession in 
the interior of Venezuela. Miss Laporte has also 
reappeared in New York as Mrs. Balston, with a 
mining claim in the mountains of Peru.” 

‘ ‘ And Templeton ? ’ ’ asked Craig. 4 ‘ Had he had 
any previous matrimonial ventures?” 

i ‘No, none. Of course he had had love affairs, 
mostly with the country-club set. He had known 
Miss Laporte pretty well, too, while he was in law 
school in New York. But when he settled down 
to work he seems to have forgotten all about the 
girls for a couple of years or so. He was very 
anxious to get ahead, and let nothing stand in his 
way. He was admitted to the bar and taken in 
by his father as junior member of the firm of Tem¬ 
pleton, Mills & Templeton. Not long ago he was 
appointed a special master to take testimony in 
the get-rich-quick-company prosecutions, and I 
happen to know that he was making good in the 
investigation.” 

Kennedy nodded. “What sort of fellow per¬ 
sonally was Templeton?” he asked. 

“Very popular,” replied the district attorney, 
“both at the country club and in his profession 
in New York. He was a fellow of naturally com- 


THE AZURE RING 199 

manding temperament—the Templetons were al¬ 
ways that way. I doubt if many young men even 
with his chances could have gained such a reputa¬ 
tion at thirty-five as his. Socially he was very 
popular, too , a great catch for all the sly mamas 
of the country club who had marriageable daugh¬ 
ters. He liked automobiles and outdoor sports, 
and he was strong in politics, too. That was how 
he got ahead so fast. 

“Well, to cut the story short, Templeton met' 
the Wainwright girls again last summer at a re¬ 
sort on Long Island. They had just returned 
from a long trip abroad, spending most of the 
time in the Far East with their father, whose 
firm has business interests in China. The girls 
were very attractive. They rode and played ten¬ 
nis and golf better than most of the men, and this 
fall Templeton became a frequent visitor at the 
Wainwright home in Williston. 

“People who know them best tell me that his 
first attentions were paid to Marian, a very dash¬ 
ing and ambitious young woman. Nearly every 
day Templeton’s car stopped at the house and the 
girls and some friend of Templeton’s in the coun¬ 
try club went for a ride. They tell me that at 
this time Marian always sat with Templeton on 
the front seat. But after a few weeks the gos¬ 
sips—nothing of that sort ever escapes Williston 
—said that the occupant of the front seat was 
Laura. She often drove the car herself and was 


200 THE SILENT BULLET 

very clever at it. At any rate, not long after that 
the engagement was announced.’’ 

As he walked up from the pretty little Willis- 
ton station Kennedy asked: “One more question, 
Mr. Whitney. How did Marian take the engage¬ 
ment ? ’ ’ 

The district attorney hesitated. “I will he per¬ 
fectly frank, Mr. Kennedy,” he answered. “The 
country-club people tell me that the girls were 
very cool toward each other. That was why I got 
that statement from Mrs. Wainwright. I wish to 
be perfectly fair to everyone concerned in this 
case.” 

We found the coroner quite willing to talk, in 
spite of the fact that the hour was late. “My 
friend, Mr. Whitney, here, still holds the poison 
theory,” began the coroner, “in spite of the fact 
that everything points absolutely toward asphyx¬ 
iation. If I had been able to discover the slight¬ 
est trace of illuminating-gas in the room I should 
have pronounced it asphyxia at once. All the 
symptoms accorded with it. But the asphyxia 
was not caused by escaping illuminating-gas. 

“There was an antique charcoal-brazier in the 
room, and I have ascertained that it was lighted. 
Now, anything like a brazier will, unless there is 
proper ventilation, give rise to carbonic oxide or 
carbon monoxide gas, which is always present in 
the products of combustion, often to the extent of 
from five to ten per cent. A very slight quantity 


THE AZURE RING 


201 


of this gas, insufficient even to cause an odour in 
a room, will give a severe headache, and a case is 
recorded where a whole family in Glasgow was 
poisoned without knowing it by the escape of this 
gas. A little over one per cent, of it in the at¬ 
mosphere is fatal, if breathed for any length of 
time. You know, it is a product of combustion, 
and is very deadly—it is the much-dreaded white 
damp or afterdamp of a mine explosion. 

“I’m going to tell you a secret which I have 
not given out to the press yet. I tried an experi¬ 
ment in a closed room to-day, lighting the brazier. 
Some distance from it I placed a cat confined in 
a cage so it could not escape. In an hour and a 
half the cat was asphyxiated.” 

The coroner concluded with an air of triumph 
that quite squelched the district attorney. 

Kennedy was all attention. “Have you pre¬ 
served samples of the blood of Mr. Templeton 
and Miss "Wainwright?” he asked. 

“Certainly. I have them in my office.” 

The coroner, who was also a local physician, 
led us back into his private office. 

“And the cat?” added Craig. 

Doctor Nott produced it in a covered basket. 

Quickly Kennedy drew off a little of the blood 
of the cat and held it up to the light along with 
the human samples. The difference was appar¬ 
ent. 

“You see,” he explained, “carbon monoxide 


202 


THE SILENT BULLET 


combines firmly with the blood, destroying the 
red colouring matter of the red corpuscles. No, 
Doctor, Pm afraid it wasn’t carbonic oxide that 
killed the lovers, although it certainly killed the 
cat.” 

Doctor Nott was crestfallen, but still uncon¬ 
vinced. “If my whole medical reputation were 
at stake,” he repeated, “I should still be com¬ 
pelled to swear to asphyxia. I’ve seen it too 
often, to make a mistake. Carbonic oxide or not, 
Templeton and Miss Wainwright were asphyxi¬ 
ated.” 

It was now Whitney’s chance to air his theory. 
“I have always inclined toward the cyanide-of- 
potassium theory, either that it was administered 
in a drink or perhaps injected by a needle,” he 
said. “One of the chemists has reported that 
there was a possibility of slight traces of cyanide 
in the mouths.” 

“If it had been cyanide,” replied Craig, look¬ 
ing reflectively at the two jars before him on the 
table, “these blood specimens would be blue in 
colour and clotted. But they are not. Then, too, 
there is a substance in the saliva which is used in 
the process of digestion. It gives a reaction 
which might very easily be mistaken for a slight 
trace of cyanide. I think that explains what the 
chemist discovered; no more, no less. The cya¬ 
nide theory does not fit.” 

“One chemist hinted at nux vomica,” volun- 


THE AZURE RING 203 

teered the coroner. “He said it wasn’t nux vom¬ 
ica, but that the blood test showed something very 
much like it. Oh, we’ve looked for morphine, 
chloroform, ether, all the ordinary poisons, be¬ 
sides some of the little known alkaloids. Believe 
me, Professor Kennedy, it was asphyxia.” 

I could tell by the look that crossed Kennedy’s 
face that at last a ray of light had pierced the 
darkness. “Have you any spirits of turpentine 
in the office?” he asked. 

The coroner shook his head and took a step 
toward the telephone as if to call the drug-store 
in town. 

“Or ether?” interrupted Craig. “Ether will 
do.” 

“Oh, yes, plenty of ether.” 

Craig poured a little of one of the blood sam¬ 
ples from the jar into a tube and added a few 
drops of ether. A cloudy dark precipitate 
formed. He smiled quietly and said, half to him¬ 
self, “I thought so.” 

“What is it?” asked the coroner eagerly. 
“Nux vomica?” 

Craig shook his head as he stared at the black 
precipitate. “You were perfectly right about the 
asphyxiation, Doctor,” he remarked slowly, “but 
wrong as to the cause. It wasn’t carbon monox¬ 
ide or illuminating-gas. And you, Mr. Whitney, 
were right about the poison, too. Only it is a 
poison neither of you ever heard of.” 


204 


THE SILENT BULLET 

“What is it?” we asked simultaneously. 

“Let me take these samples and make some fur¬ 
ther tests. I am sure of it, hut it is new to me. 
Wait till to-morrow night, when my chain of evi¬ 
dence is completed. Then you are all cordially 
invited to attend at my laboratory at the univer¬ 
sity. I’ll ask you, Mr. Whitney, to come armed 
with a warrant for John or Jane Doe. Please see 
that the Wainwrights, particularly Marian, are 
present. You can tell Inspector O’Connor that 
Mr. Vandetdyke and Mrs. Ralston are required 
as material witnesses—anything so long as you 
are sure that these five persons are present. 
Good night, gentlemen.” 

We rode back to the city in silence, but as we 
neared the station, Kennedy remarked: “You see, 
Walter, these people are like the newspapers. 
They are floundering around in a sea of unrelated 
facts. There is more than they think back of this 
crime. I’ve been revolving in my mind how it 
will be possible to get some inkling about this con¬ 
cession of Yanderdyke’s, the mining claim of Mrs. 
Ralston, and the exact itinerary of the Wain- 
wright trip in the Par East. Do you think you 
can get that information for me? I think it will 
take me all day to-morrow to isolate this poison 
and get things in convincing shape on that score. 
Meanwhile if you can see Vanderdyke and Mrs. 
Ralston you can help me a great deal. I am sure 
you will find them very interesting people.” 


THE AZURE RING 205 

“I have been told that she is quite a female 
high financier,’ ’ I replied, tacitly accepting Craig’s 
commission. “Her story is that her claim is sit¬ 
uated near the mine of a group of powerful 
American capitalists, who are opposed to having 
any competition, and on the strength of that story 
she has been raking in the money right and left. 
I don’t know Vanderdyke, never heard of him be¬ 
fore, but no doubt he has some equally interest¬ 
ing game.” 

“Don’t let them think you connect them with the 
case, however,” cautioned Craig. 

Early the next morning I started out on my 
quest for facts, though not so early but that Ken¬ 
nedy had preceded me to his work in his labora¬ 
tory. It was not very difficult to get Mrs. Ral¬ 
ston to talk about her troubles with the govern¬ 
ment. In fact, I did not even have to broach the 
subject of the death of Templeton. She volun¬ 
teered the information that in his handling of her 
case he had been very unjust to her, in spite of 
the fact that she had known him well a long time 
ago. She even hinted that she believed he rep¬ 
resented the combination of capitalists who were 
using the government to aid their own monopoly 
and prevent the development of her mine. 
Whether it was an obsession of her mind, or 
merely part of her clever scheme, I could not make 
out. I noted, however, that when she spoke of 
Templeton it was in a studied, impersonal way, 


206 


THE SILENT BULLET 


and that she was at pains to lay the blame for 
the governmental interference rather on the rival 
mine-owners. 

It quite surprised me when I found from the 
directory that Vanderdyke’s office was on the floor 
below in the same building. Like Mrs. Balston’s, 
it was open, but not doing business, pending the 
investigation by the Post-Office Department. 

Vanderdyke was a type of which I had seen 
many before. Well dressed to the extreme, he 
displayed all those evidences of prosperity which 
are the stock in trade of the man with securities 
to sell. He grasped my hand when I told him I 
was going to present the other side of the post- 
office cases and held it between both of his as if 
he had known me all his life. Only the fact that 
he had never seen me before prevented his calling 
me by my first name. I took mental note of his 
stock of jewellery, the pin in his tie that might al¬ 
most have been the Hope diamond, the heavy 
watchchain across his chest, and a very brilliant 
seal ring of lapis lazuli on the hand that grasped 
mine. He saw me looking at it and smiled. 

“My dear fellow, we have deposits of that 
stuff that would make a fortune if we could get 
the machinery to get at it. Why, sir, there is 
lapis lazuli enough on our claim to make enough 
ultramarine paint to supply all the artists to the 
end of the world. Actually we could afford to 
crush it up and sell it as paint. And that is 


THE AZURE RING 207 

merely incidental to the other things on the con¬ 
cession. The asphalt’s the thing. That’s where 
the big money is. When we get started, sir, the 
old asphalt trust will simply melt away, melt 
away. ’ ’ 

He blew a cloud of tobacco smoke and let it 
dissolve significantly in the air. 

When it came to talking about the suits, how¬ 
ever, Yanderdyke was not so communicative as 
Mrs. Ralston, but he was also not so bitter against 
either the post-office or Templeton. 

44 Poor Templeton,” he said. “I used to know 
him years ago when we were boys. Went to 
school with him and all that sort of thing, you 
know, but until I ran across him, or rather he 
ran across me, in this investigation I hadn’t heard 
much about him. Pretty clever fellow he was, 
too. The state will miss him, but my lawyer tells 
me that we should have won the suit anyhow, 
even if that unfortunate tragedy hadn’t occurred. 
Most unaccountable, wasn’t it? I’ve read about 
it in the papers for old time’s sake, and can make 
nothing out of it.” 

I said nothing, but wondered how he could pass 
so light-heartedly over the death of the woman 
who had once been his wife. However, I said 
nothing. The result was he launched forth again 
on the riches of his Venezuelan concession and 
loaded me down with 44 literature,” which I 
crammed into my pocket for future reference. 


208 


THE SILENT BULLET 


My next step was to drop into the office of a 
Spanish-American paper whose editor was espe¬ 
cially well informed on South American affairs. 

“Do I know Mrs. Ralston?” he repeated, 
thoughtfully lighting one of those black cigar¬ 
ettes that look so vicious and are so mild. “I 
should say so. I’ll tell you a little story about 
her. Three or four years ago she turned up in 
Caracas. I don’t know who Mr. Ralston was— 
perhaps there never was any Mr. Ralston. 
Anyhow, she got in with the official circle of the 
Castro government and was very successful as an 
adventuress. She has considerable business abil¬ 
ity and represented a certain group of Ameri¬ 
cans. But, if you recall, when Castro was elimi¬ 
nated pretty nearly everyone who had stood high 
with him went, too. It seems that a number of 
the old concessionaires played the game on both 
sides. This particular group had a man named 
Vanderdyke on the anti-Castro side. So, when 
Mrs. Ralston went, she just quietly sailed by way 
of Panama to the other side of the continent, to 
Peru—they paid her well—and Vanderdyke took 
the title role. 

“Oh, yes, she and Vanderdyke were very good 
Tiends, very, indeed. I think they must have 
mown each other here in the States. Still they 
)layed their parts well at the time. Since things 
lave settled down in Venezuela, the concession- 
ires have found no further use for Vanderdyke 


209 


THE AZURE RING 

either, and here they are, Vanderdyke and Mrs. 
Ralston, both in New York now, with two of the 
most outrageous schemes of financing ever seen 
on Broad Street. They have offices in the same 
building, they are together a great deal, and now 
I hear that the state attorney-general is after 
both of them.” 

With this information and a very meagre re¬ 
port of the Wainwright trip to the Far East, 
which had taken in some out-of-the-way places 
apparently, I hastened back to Kennedy. He 
was surrounded by bottles, tubes, jars, retorts, 
Bunsen burners, everything in the science and 
art of chemistry, I thought. 

I didn’t like the way he looked. His hand was 
unsteady, and his eyes looked badly, but he 
seemed quite put out when I suggested that he 
was working too hard over the case. I was 
worried about him, but rather than say anything 
to offend him I left him for the rest of the after¬ 
noon, only dropping in before dinner to make 
sure that he would not forget to eat something. 
He was then completing his preparations for the 
evening. They were of the simplest kind, appar¬ 
ently. In fact, all I could see was an apparatus 
which consisted of a rubber funnel, inverted and 
attached to a rubber tube which led in turn into 
a jar about a quarter full of water. Through 
the stopper of the jar another tube led to a tank 
of oxygen. 


210 THE SILENT BULLET 

There were several jars of various liquids on 
the table and a number of chemicals. Among 
other things was a sort of gourd, encrusted with 
a black substance, and in a corner was a box 
from which sounds issued as if it contained some¬ 
thing alive. 

I did not trouble Kennedy with questions, for 
I was only too glad when he consented to take a 
brisk walk and join me in a thick porterhouse. 

It was a large party that gathered in Kennedy’s 
laboratory that night, one of the largest he had 
ever had. Mr. and Mrs. Wainwriglit and Miss 
Marian came, the ladies heavily veiled. Doctor 
Nott and Mr. Whitney were among the first to 
arrive. Later came Mr. Vanderdyke and last of 
all Mrs. Ralston with Inspector O’Connor. Al¬ 
together it was an unwilling party. 

“I shall begin,” said Kennedy, “by going over, 
briefly, the facts in this case.” 

Tersely he summarised it, to my surprise lay¬ 
ing great stress on the proof that the couple had 
been asphyxiated. 

“But it was no ordinary asphyxiation,” he con¬ 
tinued. “We have to deal in this case with a 
poison which is apparently among the most subtle 
known. A particle of matter so minute as to be 
hardly distinguishable by the naked eye, on the 
point of a needle or a lancet, a prick of the skin 
scarcely felt under any circumstances and which 
would pass quite unheeded if the attention were 


211 


THE AZUEE RING 

otherwise engaged, and not all the power in the 
world—unless one was fully prepared—could 
save the life of the person in whose skin the punc¬ 
ture had been made.” 

Craig paused a moment, but no one showed any 
evidence of being more than ordinarily impressed. 

4 ‘ This poison, I find, acts on the so-called end- 
plates of the muscles and nerves. It produces 
complete paralysis, but not loss of consciousness, 
sensation, circulation, or respiration until the end 
approaches. It seems to be one of the most 
powerful sedatives I have ever heard of. When 
introduced in even a minute quantity it produces 
death finally by asphyxiation—by paralysing the 
muscles of respiration. This asphyxia is what so 
puzzled the coroner. 

“I will now inject a little of the blood serum 
of the victims into a white mouse.” 

He took a mouse from the box I had seen, and 
with a needle injected the serum. The mouse did 
not even wince, so lightly did he touch it, but as 
we watched, its life seemed gently to ebb away, 
without pain and without struggle. Its breath 
simply seemed to stop. 

Next he took the gourd I had seen on the table! 
and with a knife scraped off just the minutest 
particle of the black licorice-like stuff that en¬ 
crusted it. He dissolved the particle in some al¬ 
cohol and with a sterilised needle repeated his ex¬ 
periment on a second mouse. The effect was pr' 


212 THE SILENT BULLET 

cisely similar to that produced by the blood on the 
first. 

It did not seem to me that anyone showed any 
emotion except possibly the slight exclamation 
that escaped Miss Marian Wainwright. I fell to 
wondering whether it was prompted by a soft 
heart or a guilty conscience. 

We were all intent on what Craig was doing, 
especially Doctor Nott, who now broke in with 
a question. 

“Professor Kennedy, may I ask a question? 
Admitting that the first mouse died in an appar¬ 
ently similar manner to the second, what proof 
have you that the poison is the same in both 
cases? And if it is the same can you show that 
it affects human beings in the same way, and that 
enough of it has been discovered in the blood of 
the victims to have caused their death? In other 
words, I want the last doubt set aside. How do 
you know absolutely that this poison which you 
discovered in my office last night in that black 
precipitate when you added the ether—how do 
you know that it asphyxiated the victims?” 

If ever Craig startled me it was by his quiet 
reply. “I’ve isolated it in their blood, extracted 
it, sterilised it, and I’ve tried it on myself.” 

In breathless amazement, with eyes riveted on 
Craig, we listened. 

“Altogether I was able to recover from the 
blood samples of both of the victims of this crime 


213 


THE AZURE RING 

six centigrams of the poison,” he pursued. 
“ Starting with two centigrams of it as a moder¬ 
ate dose, I injected it into my right arm subcu¬ 
taneously. Then I slowly worked my way up to 
three and then four centigrams. They did not 
produce any very appreciable results other than 
to cause some dizziness, slight vertigo, a consid¬ 
erable degree of lassitude, and an extremely pain¬ 
ful headache of rather unusual duration. But 
five centigrams considerably improved on this. 
It caused a degree of vertigo and lassitude that 
was most distressing, and six centigrams, the 
whole amount which I had recovered from the 
samples of blood, gave me the fright of my life 
right here in this laboratory this afternoon. 

“Perhaps I was not wise in giving Tnyrolf p > 
large an injection on a day when I was 
and below par otherwise because of ' 
have been under in handling this case 
that may be, the added centigram j 
much more on top of the five centig 
ously taken that for a time I had re; 
that that additional centigram w£ 
amount needed to bring my experime: 
manent close. 

“Within three minutes of the time 
the dizziness and vertigo had become so great a 
to make walking seem impossible. In anothe 
minute the lassitude rapidly crept over me, an 
the serious disturbance of my breathing made i l 


214' 


THE SILENT BULLET 


apparent to me that walking, waving my arms, 
anything, was imperative. My lungs felt glued 
up, and the muscles of my chest refused to work. 
Everything swam before my eyes, and I was soon 
reduced to walking up and down the laboratory 
with halting steps, only preventing falling on the 
floor by holding fast to the edge of this table. It 
seemed to me that I spent hours gasping for 
breath. It reminded me of what I once experi¬ 
enced in the Cave of the Winds of Niagara, 
where water is more abundant in the atmosphere 
than air. My watch afterward indicated only 
about twenty minutes of extreme distress, but that 
twenty minutes is one never to be forgotten, and 
t advise you all, if you ever are so foolish as to 
;ry the experiment, to remain below the five-centi¬ 
gram limit. 

“How much was administered to the victims, 
Ooetor Nott, I cannot say, but it must have been 

good deal more than I took. Six centigrams, 
fiich I recovered from these small samples, are 
inly nine-tenths of a grain. Yet you see what eff¬ 
ect it had. I trust that answers your question V 9 

Doctor Nott was too overwhelmed to reply. 

“And what is this deadly poison?” continued 
Craig, anticipating our thoughts. “I have been 
ortunate enough to obtain a sample of it from 
he Museum of Natural History. It comes in a 
ittle gourd, or often a calabash. This is in a 
jourd. It is blackish brittle stuff encrusting the 


215 


THE AZURE RING 

sides of the gourd just as if it was poured in in 
the liquid state and left to dry. Indeed, that is 
just what has been done by those who manufac¬ 
ture this stuff after a lengthy and somewhat 
secret process.’’ 

He placed the gourd on the edge of the table 
where we could all see it. I was almost afraid 
even to look at it. 

“The famous traveller, Sir Robert Schom- 
burgk, first brought it into Europe, and Darwin 
has described it. It is now an article of com¬ 
merce and is to be found in the United States 
Pharmacopoeia as a medicine, though of course it 
is used in only very minute quantities, as a heart 
stimulant.” 

Craig opened a book to a place he had marked. 

“At least one person in this room will appre¬ 
ciate the local colour of a little incident I am going 
to read—to illustrate what death from this poison 
is like. Two natives of the part of the world 
whence it comes were one day hunting. They 
were armed with blow-pipes and quivers full of 
poisoned darts made of thin charred pieces of 
bamboo tipped with this stuff. One of them 
aimed a dart. It missed the object overhead, 
glanced off the tree, and fell down on the hunter 
himself. This is how the other native reported 
the result: 

“ ‘Quacca takes the dart out of his shoulder. 
Never a word. Puts it in his quiver and throws 


216 THE SILENT BULLET 

it in the stream. Gives me his blow-pipe for his 
little son. Says to me good-bye for his wife and 
the village. Then he lies down. His tongue 
talks no longer. No sight in his eyes. He folds 
his arms. He rolls over slowly. His mouth 
moves without sound. I feel his heart. It goes 
fast and then slow. It stops. Quacca has shot 
his last woorali dart.’ ” 

We looked at each other, and the horror of the 
thing sank deep into our minds. Woorali. What 
was it? There were many travellers in the room 
who had been in the Orient, home of poisons, and 
in South America. Which one had run across 
the poison? 

“Woorali, or curare,” said Craig slowly, “is 
the well-known poison with which the South 
American Indians of the upper Orinoco tip their 
arrows. Its principal ingredient is derived from 
the Strychnos toxifera tree, which yields also the 
drug nux vomica.” 

A great light dawned on me. I turned quickly 
to where Vanderdyke was sitting next to Mrs. 
Ralston, and a little behind her. His stony stare 
and laboured breathing told me that he had read 
the purport of Kennedy’s actions. 

“For God’s sake, Craig,” I gasped. “An 
emetic, quick—Vanderdyke. ’ ’ 

A trace of a smile flitted over Vanderdyke’s 
features, as much as to say that he was beyond 
our interference. 


THE AZURE RING 217 

“Vanderdyke,” said Craig, with what seemed 
to me a brutal calmness, “then it was you who 
were the visitor who last saw Laura Wainwright 
and John Templeton alive. Whether you shot a 
dart at them I do not know. But you are the 
murderer.” 

Vanderdyke raised his hand as if to assent. 
It fell back limp, and I noted the ring of the 
bluest lapis lazuli. 

Mrs. Ralston threw herself toward him. “Will 
you not do something? Is there no antidote? 
Don’t let him die!” she cried. 

“You are the murderer,” repeated Kennedy, 
as if demanding a final answer. 

Again the hand moved in confession, and he 
feebly moved the finger on which shone the ring. 

Our attention was centred on Vanderdyke. 
Mrs. Ralston, unobserved, went to the table and 
picked up the gourd. Before O’Connor could 
stop her she had rubbed her tongue on the black 
substance inside. It was only a little bit, for 
O’Connor quickly dashed it from her lips and 
threw the gourd through the window, smashing 
the glass. 

“Kennedy,” he shouted frantically, “Mrs. 
Ralston has swallowed some of it.” 

Kennedy seemed so intent on Vanderdyke that 
I had to repeat the remark. 

Without looking up he said: “Oh, one can 
swallow it—it’s strange, but it is comparatively 


21 8 THE SILENT BULLET 

inert if swallowed even in a pretty good-sized 
quantity. I doubt if Mrs. Ralston ever heard of 
it before except by hearsay. If she had, she’d 
have scratched herself with it instead of swallow¬ 
ing it.” 

If Craig had been indifferent to the emergency 
of Vanderdyke before, he was all action now that 
the confession had been made. In an instant 
Vanderdyke was stretched on the floor and Craig 
had taken out the apparatus I had seen during 
the afternoon. 

“I am prepared for this,” he exclaimed quickly. 
“Here is the apparatus for artificial respiration. 
Nott, hold that rubber funnel over his nose, and 
start the oxygen from the tank. Pull his tongue 
forward so it won’t fall down his throat and choke 
him. I’ll work his arms. Walter, make a tourni¬ 
quet of your handkerchief and put it tightly on 
the muscles of his left arm. That may keep 
some of the poison in his arm from spreading 
into the rest of his body. This is the only anti¬ 
dote known—artificial respiration.” 

Kennedy was working feverishly, going 
through the motions of first aid to a drowned 
man. Mrs. Ralston was on her knees beside Van¬ 
derdyke, kissing his hands and forehead whenever 
Kennedy stopped for a minute, and crying softly. 

“Schuyler, poor boy, I wonder how you could 
have done it. I was with him that day. We 
rode up in his car, and as we passed through Wil- 


THE AZURE RING 


219 


listen lie said he would stop a minute and wish 
Templeton luck. I didn’t think it strange, for he 
said he had nothing any longer against Laura 
Wainwright, and Templeton only did his duty as 
a lawyer against us. I forgave John for prose¬ 
cuting us, but Schuyler didn’t, after all. Oh, my 
poor boy, why did you do it? We could have 
gone somewhere else and started all over again 
—it wouldn’t have been the first time.” 

At last came the flutter of an eyelid and a vol¬ 
untary breath or two. Vanderdyke seemed to 
realise where he was. With a last supreme effort 
he raised his hand and drew it slowly across his 
face. Then he fell back, exhausted by the effort. 

But he had at last put himself beyond the reach 
of the law. There was no tourniquet that would 
confine the poison now in the scratch across his 
face. Back of those lack-lustre eyes he heard and 
knew, but could not move or speak. His voice 
was gone, his limbs, his face, his chest, and, last, 
his eyes. I wondered if it were possible to con¬ 
ceive a more dreadful torture than that endured 
by a mind which so witnessed the dying of one 
organ after another of its own body, shut up, as 
it were, in the fulness of life, within a corpse. 

I looked in bewilderment at the scratch on his 
face. “How did he do it?” I asked. 

Carefully Craig drew off the azure ring and 
examined it. In that part which surrounded the 
blue lapis lazuli, he indicated a hollow point, con- 


220 THE SILENT BULLET 

cealed. It worked with a spring and communi¬ 
cated with a little receptacle behind, in such a 
way that the murderer could give the fatal scratch 
while shaking hands with his victim. 

I shuddered, for my hand had once been clasped 
by the one wearing that poison ring, which had 
sent Templeton, and his fiancee and now Vander- 
dyke himself, to their deaths. 


# 


VIII 


(1 SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION ’ ’ 

Kennedy and I had risen early, for we were hust¬ 
ling to get off for a week-end at Atlantic City. 
Kennedy was tugging at the straps of his grip 
and remonstrating with it under his breath, when 
the door opened and a messenger-boy stuck his 
head in. 

“Does Mr. Kennedy live here?” he asked. 

Craig impatiently seized the pencil, signed his 
name in the book, and tore open a night letter. 
From the prolonged silence that followed I felt 
a sense of misgiving. I, at least, had set my 
heart on the Atlantic City outing, hut with the 
appearance of the messenger-boy I intuitively felt 
that the hoard walk would not see us that week. 

“I’m afraid the Atlantic City trip is off, Wal¬ 
ter,” remarked Craig seriously. “You remem¬ 
ber Tom Langley in our class at the university! 
Well, read that.” 

I laid down my safety razor and took the mes¬ 
sage. Tom had not spared words, and I could 
see at a glance at the mere length of the thing 
that it must be important. It was from Camp 
Hang-out in the Adirondacks. 

221 


222 


THE SILENT BULLET 


“Dear old K.,” it began, regardless of expense, 
“can yon arrange to come np here by next train 
after yon receive this? Uncle Lewis is dead. 
Most mysterious. Last night after we retired 
noticed peculiar odour about house. Didn’t pay 
much attention. This morning found him lying 
on floor of living-room, head and chest literally 
burned to ashes, but lower part of body and arms 
untouched. Room shows no evidence of fire, but 
full of sort of oily soot. Otherwise nothing un¬ 
usual. On table near body siphon of seltzer, bot¬ 
tle of imported gin, limes, and glass for riekeys. 
Have removed body, but am keeping room exactly 
as found until you arrive. Bring Jameson. Wire 
if you cannot come, but make every effort and 
spare no expense. Anxiously, Tom Langley.” 

Craig was impatiently looking at his watch as 
I hastily ran through the letter. 

“Hurry, Walter,” he exclaimed. “We can just 
catch the Empire State. Never mind shaving— 
we’ll have a stop-over at Utica to wait for the 
Montreal express. Here, put the rest of yor*r 
things in your grip and jam it shut. We’ll get 
something to eat on the train—I hope. I’ll wire 
we’re coming. Don’t forget to latch the door.” 

Kennedy was already half-way to the elevator, 
and I followed ruefully, still thinking of the ocean 
and the piers, the bands and the roller chairs. 

It was a good ten-hour journey up to the little 
station nearest Camp Hang-out and at least a two- 


“SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION’’ 223 


hour ride after that. We had plenty of time to 
reflect over what this death might mean to Tom 
and his sister and to speculate on the manner of 
it. Tom and Grace Langley were relatives by 
marriage of Lewis Langley, who, after the death 
of his wife, had made them his proteges. Lewis 
Langley was principally noted, as far as I could 
recall, for being a member of some of the fastest 
clubs of both New York and London. Neither 
Kennedy nor myself had shared in the world’s 
opinion of him, for we knew how good he had 
been to Tom in college and, from Tom, how good 
he had been to Grace. In fact, he had made Tom 
assume the Langley name, and in every way had 
treated the brother and sister as if they had been 
his own children. 

Tom met us with a smart trap at the station, 
a sufficient indication, if we had not already 
known, of the “roughing it” at such a luxurious 
Adirondack “camp” as Camp Hang-out. He was 
unaffectedly glad to see us, and it was not diffi¬ 
cult to read in his face the worry which the affair 
had already given him. 

“Tom, I’m awfully sorry to—” began Craig 
when, warned by Langley’s look at the curious 
crowd that always gathers at the railroad station 
at train time, he cut it short. We stood silently 
a moment while Tom was arranging the trap for 
us. 

As we swung around the bend in the road that 


224 THE SILENT BULLET 

cut off the little station and its crowd of look¬ 
ers-on, Kennedy was the first to speak. “Tom,” 
he said, “first of all, let me ask that when we get 
to the camp we are to be simply two old classmates 
whom you had asked to spend a few days before 
the tragedy occurred. Anything will do. There 
may be nothing at all to your evident suspicions, 
and then again there may. At any rate, play the 
game safely—don’t arouse any feeling which 
might cause unpleasantness later in case you are 
mistaken.’ 9 

“I quite agree with you,” answered Tom. 
“You wired, from Albany, I think, to keep the 
facts out of the papers as much as possible. I’m 
afraid it is too late for that. Of course the 
thing became vaguely known in Saranac, al¬ 
though the county officers have been very consid¬ 
erate of us, and this morning a New York Record 
correspondent was over and talked with us. I 
couldn’t refuse, that would have put a very bad 
face on it.” 

“Too bad,” I exclaimed. “I had hoped, at 
least, to be able to keep the report down to a 
few lines in the Star . But the Record will have 
such a yellow story about it that I’ll simply have 
to do something to counteract the effect.” 

“Yes,” assented Craig. “But—wait. Let’s 
see the Record story first. The office doesn’t 
know you’re up here. You can hold up the Star 
and give us time to look things over, perhaps 


“SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION” 225 


get in a beat on the real story and set things 
right. Anyhow, the news is out. That’s certain. 
We must work quickly. Tell me, Tom, who are 
at the camp—anyone except relatives?” 

“No,” he replied, guardedly measuring his 
words. “Uncle Lewis had invited his brother 
James and his niece and nephew, Isabelle and 
James, junior—we call him Junior. Then there 
are Grace and myself and a distant relative, Har¬ 
rington Brown, and—oh, of course, uncle’s phy¬ 
sician, Doctor Putnam.” 

“Who is Harrington Brown?” asked Craig. 

“He’s on the other side of the Langley family, 
on Uncle Lewis’s mother’s side. I think, or at 
least Grace thinks, that he is quite in love with 
Isabelle. Harrington Brown would be quite a 
catch. Of course he isn’t wealthy, but his family 
is mighty well connected. Oh, Craig,” sighed 
Langley, “I wish he hadn’t done it—Uncle Lewis, 
I mean. Why did he invite his brother up here 
now when he needed to recover from the swift 
pace of last winter in New York? You know— 
or you don’t know, I suppose, but you’ll know it 
now—when he and Uncle Jim got together there 
was nothing to it but one drink after another. 
Doctor Putnam was quite disgusted, at least he 
professed to be, but, Craig,” he lowered his voice 
to a whisper, as if the very 'forest had ears, 
“they’re all alike—they’ve been just waiting for 
Uncle Lewis to drink himself to death. Oh,” he 


22 G THE SILENT BULLET 

added bitterly, “there’s no love lost between me 
and the relatives on that score, I can assure you.” 

“How did you find him that morning?” asked 
Kennedy, as if to turn off this unlocking of fam¬ 
ily secrets to strangers. 

“That’s the worst part of the whole affair,” 
replied Tom, and even in the dusk I could see the 
lines of his face tighten. “You know Uncle 
Lewis was a hard drinker, but he never seemed 
to show it much. We had been out on the lake 
in the motor-boat fishing all the afternoon and— 
well, I must admit both my uncles had had fre¬ 
quent recourse to ‘pocket pistols,’ and I remem¬ 
ber they referred to it each time as ‘bait.’ Then 
after supper nothing would do but fizzes and 
rickeys. I was disgusted, and after reading a. 
bit went to bed. Harrington and my uncles sat 
up with Doctor Putnam—according to Uncle Jim 
—for a couple of hours longer. Then Harring¬ 
ton, Doctor Putnam, and Uncle Jim went to bed, 
leaving Uncle Lewis still drinking. 

“I remember waking in the night, and the 
house seemed saturated with a peculiar odour. I 
never smelt anything like it in my life. So I got \ 
up and slipped into my bathrobe. I met Grace 
in the hall. She was sniffing. 

“ ‘Don’t you smell something burning?’ she 
asked. 

“I said I did and started down-stairs to in¬ 
vestigate. Everything was, dark, but that smell 


1 ‘SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION” 227 

was all over the house. I looked in each room 
down-stairs as I went, hut could see nothing. The 
kitchen and dining-room were all right. I 
glanced into the living-room, but, while the smell 
was more noticeable there, I could see no evi¬ 
dence of a tire except the dying embers on the 
hearth. It had been coolish that night, and we 
had had a few logs blazing. I didn’t examine the 
room—there seemed no reason for it. We went 
back to our rooms, and in the morning they found 
the gruesome object I had missed in the dark¬ 
ness and shadows of the living-room.” 

Kennedy was intently listening. “ Who found 
him!” he asked. 

“Harrington,” replied Tom. “He roused us. 
Harrington’s theory is that uncle set himself on 
fire with a spark from his cigar—a charred cigar- 
butt was found on the floor.” 

We found Tom’s relatives a saddened, silent 
party in the face of the tragedy. Kennedy and 
I apologised very profusely for our intrusion, but 
Tom quickly interrupted, as we had agreed, by 
explaining that he had insisted on our coming, as 
old friends on whom he felt he could rely, espe¬ 
cially to set the matter right in the newspapers. 

I think Craig noticed keenly the reticence of 
the family group in the mystery—I might aim 
have called it suspicion. They did not seem 
know just whether to take it as an accident or 
something worse* and each seemed to entertaii 


228 THE SILENT BULLET 

reserve toward the rest which was very uncom¬ 
fortable. 

Mr. Langley’s attorney in New York had been 
notified, but apparently was out of town, for he 
had not been heard from. They seemed rather 
anxious to get word from him. 

Dinner over, the family group separated, leav¬ 
ing Tom an opportunity to take us into the grue¬ 
some living-room. Of course the remains had 
been removed, but otherwise the room was exactly 
as it had been when Harrington discovered the 
tragedy. I did not see the body, which was lying 
in an anteroom, but Kennedy did, and spent some 
time in there. 

After he rejoined us, Kennedy next examined 
the fireplace. It was full of ashes from the logs 
which had been lighted on the fatal night. He 
noted attentively the distance of Lewis Langley’s 
chair from the fireplace, and remarked that the 
varnish on the chair was not even blistered. 

Before the chair, on the floor where the body 
had been found, he pointed out to us the peculiar 
ash-marks for some space around, but it really 
seemed to me as if something else interested him 
more than these ash-marks. 

We had been engaged perhaps half an hour in 
viewing the room. At last Craig suddenly 
stopped. 

“Tom,” he said, “I think I’ll wait till day¬ 
light before I go any further. I can’t tell with 


“SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION” 229 


certainty under these lights, though perhaps they 
show me some things the sunlight wouldn’t show. 
We’d better leave everything just as it is until 
morning. ’ ’ 

So we locked the room again and went into a 
sort of library across the hall. 

We were sitting in silence, each occupied with 
his own thoughts on the mystery, when the tele¬ 
phone rang. It proved to be a long-distance call 
from New York for Tom himself. His uncle’s 
attorney had received the news at his home out 
on Long Island and had hurried to the city to 
take charge of the estate. But that was not the 
news that caused the grave look on Tom’s face as 
he nervously rejoined us. 

“That was uncle’s lawyer, Mr. Clark, of Clark 
& Burdick,” he said. “He has opened uncle’s 
personal safe in the offices of the Langley estate 
—you remember them, Craig—where all the 
property of the Langley heirs is administered by 
the trustees. He says he can’t find the will, 
though he knows there was a will and that it was 
placed in that safe some time ago. There is no 
duplicate.” 

The full purport of this information at once 
flashed on me, and I was on the point of blurting 
out my sympathy, when I saw by the look which 
Craig and Tom exchanged that they had already 
realised it and understood each other. Without 
the will the blood-relatives would inherit all of 


230 


THE SILENT BULLET 


Lewis Langley’s interest in the old Langley es¬ 
tate. Tom and his sister would be penniless. 

It was late, yet we sat^for nearly an hour 
longer, and I don’t think we exchanged a half- 
dozen sentences in all that time. Craig seemed 
absorbed in thought. At length, as the great hall- 
clock sounded midnight, we rose as if by common 
consent. 

“Tom,” said Craig, and I could feel the sym¬ 
pathy that welled up in his voice, 1 ‘ Tom, old man, 
I’ll get at the bottom of this mystery if human 
intelligence can do it.” 

“I know you will, Craig,” responded Tom, 
grasping each of us by the hand. “That’s why 
I so much wanted you fellows to come up here.” 

Early in the morning Kennedy aroused me. 
“Now, Walter, I’m going to ask you to come 
down into the living-room with me, and we’ll take 
a look at it in the daytime.” 

I hurried into my clothes, and together we 
quietly went down. Starting with the exact spot 
where the unfortunate man had been discovered, 
Kennedy began a minute examination of the floor, 
using his pocket lens. Every few moments he 
would stop to examine a spot on the rug or on 
the hardwood floor more intently. Several times 
I saw him scrape up something with the blade of 
his knife and carefully preserve the scrapings, 
each in a separate piece of paper. 

Sitting idly by, I could not for the life of me 


“SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION” 231 

see just what good it did for me to be there, and 
I said as much. Kennedy laughed quietly. 

“You’re a material witness, Walter,” he re¬ 
plied. “Perhaps I shall need you some day to 
testify that I actually found these spots in this 
room.” 

Just then Tom stuck his head in. “Can I 
help!” he asked. “Why didn’t you tell me you 
were going at it so early!” 

“No, thanks,” answered Craig, rising from the 
floor. “I was just making a careful examination 
of the room before anyone was up so that nobody 
would think I was too interested. I’ve finished. 
But you can help me, after all. Do you think 
you could describe exactly how everyone was 
dressed that night!” 

“Why, I can try. Let me see. To begin with, 
uncle had on a shooting-jacket—that was pretty 
well burnt, as you know. Why, in fact, we all had 
our shooting-jackets on. The ladies were in 
white.” 

Craig pondered a little, but did not seem dis¬ 
posed to pursue the subject further, until ,lw ~ 
volunteered the information that since the tra 
none of them had been wearing their shoe 
jackets. 

“We’ve all been wearing city clothes,” 0 
marked. 

“Could you get your Uncle James and 
Cousin Junior to go with you for an hour or ; 


232 


THE SILENT BULLET 


this morning on the lake, or on a tramp in the 
woods?” asked Craig after a moment’s thought. 

“Really, Craig,” responded Tom doubtfully, 
“I ought to go to Saranac to complete the ar¬ 
rangements for taking Uncle Lewis’s body to New 
York.” 

“Very well, persuade them to go with you. 
Anything, so long as you keep me from interrup¬ 
tion for an hour or two.” 

They agreed on doing that, and as by that time 
most of the family were up, we went in to break¬ 
fast, another silent and suspicious meal. 

After breakfast Kennedy tactfully withdrew 
from the family, and I did the same. We 
wandered off in the direction of the stables and 
there fell to admiring some of the horses. The 
groom, who seemed to be a sensible and pleasant 
sort of fellow, was quite ready to talk, and soon 
he and Craig were deep in discussing the game 
of the north country. 

“Many rabbits about here?” asked Kennedy at 
length, when they had exhausted the larger game. 

“Oh, yes. I saw one this morning, sir,” re¬ 
plied the groom. 

“Indeed?” said Kennedy. “Do you suppose 
fou could catch a couple for me?” 

“Guess I could, sir—alive, you mean?” 

“Oh, yes, alive—I don’t want you to violate 
the game laws. This is the closed season, isn’t 
it?” 


“SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION” 233 


“Yes, sir, but then it’s all right, sir, here on 
the estate.” 

“Bring them to me this afternoon, or—no, keep 
them here in the stable in a cage and let me know 
when you have them. If anybody asks you about 
them, say they belong to Mr. Tom.” 

Craig handed a small treasury note to the 
groom, who took it with a grin and touched his 
hat. 

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll let you know when 
I have the bunnies.” 

As we walked slowly back from the stables we 
caught sight of Tom down at the boat-house just 
putting off in the motor-boat with his uncle and 
cousin. Craig waved to him, and he walked up 
to meet us. 

“While you’re in Saranac,” said Craig, “buy 
me a dozen or so test-tubes. Only, don’t let any¬ 
one here at the house know you are buying them. 
They might ask questions.” 

While they were gone Kennedy stole into James 
Langley’s room and after a few minutes returned 
to our room with the hunting-jacket. He 
carefully examined it with his pocket lens. Then 
he filled a drinking-glass with warm boiled water 
and added a few pinches of table salt. With a 
piece of sterilised gauze from Doctor Putnam’s 
medicine-chest, he carefully washed off a few 
portions of the coat and set the glass and the 
gauze soaking in it aside. Then he returned the 


234 


THE SILENT BULLET 


coat to the closet where he had found it. Next, 
as silently, he stole into Junior’s room and re¬ 
peated the process with his hunting-jacket, using 
another glass and piece of gauze. 

“ While I am out of the room, Walter,” he said, 
“I want you to take these two glasses, cover them, 
and number them and on a slip of paper which 
you must retain, place the names of the owners 
of the respective coats. I don’t like this part of 
it—I hate to play spy and would much rather 
come out in the open, but there is nothing else to 
do, and it is much better for all concerned that I 
should play the game secretly just now. There 
may be no cause for suspicion at all. In that case 
I’d never forgive myself for starting a family 
row. And then again—but we shall see.” 

After I had numbered and recorded the glasses 
Kennedy returned, and we went down-stairs 
again. 

“Curious about the will, isn’t it?” I remarked 
as we stood on the wide verandah a moment. 

“Yes,” he replied. “It may be necessary to go 
back to New York to delve into that part of it be¬ 
fore we get through, but I hope not. We ’ll wait. ’ ’ 

At this point the groom interrupted us to say 
that he had caught the rabbits. Kennedy at once 
hurried to the stable. There he rolled up his 
sleeves, pricked a vein in his arm, and injected 
a small quantity of his own blood into one. of the 
rabbits. The other he did not touch. 


“SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION” 235 


It was late in the afternoon when Tom returned 
from town with his uncle and cousin. He seemed 
even more agitated than usual. Without a word 
he hurried up from the landing and sought us 

out. 

“What do you think of that?” he cried, open¬ 
ing a copy of the Record, and laying it hat on the 
library table. 

There on the front page was Lewis Langley’s 
picture with a huge scare-head: 

MYSTERIOUS CASE OF SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION 

“It’s all out,” groaned Tom, as we bent over 
to read the account. “And such a story!” 

Under the date of the day previous, a Saranac 
despatch ran: 

Lewis Langley, well known as sporting man and club 
member in New York, and eldest son of the late Lewis 
Langley, the banker, was discovered dead under the most 
mysterious circumstances this morning at Camp Hang¬ 
out, twelve miles from this town. 

The Death of “Old Krook” in Dickens’s “Bleak 
House ” or of the victim in one of Marryat’s most thrill¬ 
ing tales was not more gruesome than this actual fact. 
It is without doubt a case of spontaneous human com¬ 
bustion, such as is recorded beyond dispute in medical 
and medico-legal text-books of the past two centuries. 
Scientists in this city consulted for the Record agree 
that, while rare, spontaneous human combustion is an. 


236 THE SILENT BULLET 

established fact and that everything in this curious case 
goes to show that another has been added to the already 
well-authenticated list of cases recorded in America and 
Europe. The family refuse to be interviewed, which 
seems to indicate that the rumours in medical circles in 
Saranac have a solid basis of fact. 

Then followed a circumstantial account of the 
life of Langley and the events leading up to the 
discovery of the body—fairly accurate in itself, 
hut highly coloured. 

4 'The Record man must have made good use of 
his time here,” I commented, as I finished read¬ 
ing the despatch. “ And—well, they must have 
done some hard work in New York to get this 
story up so completely—see, after the despatch 
follow a lot of interviews, and here is a short 
article on spontaneous combustion itself.” 

Harrington and the rest of the family had just 
come in. 

“What's this we hear about the Record having 
an article?” Harrington asked. “Bead it aloud, 
Professor, so we can all hear it.” 

“ ‘Spontaneous human combustion, or catacau- 
sis ebriosuSy ” began Craig, “ 4s one of the 
baffling human scientific mysteries. Indeed, there 
can be no doubt but that individuals have in some 
strange and inexplicable manner caught fire and 
been partially or almost wholly consumed. 

“ ‘Some have attributed it to gases in the body, 
such as carbureted hydrogen. Once it was noted 


“SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION” 237 


at the Hotel Dieu in Paris that a body on being 
dissected gave forth a gas which was inflammable 
and burned with a bluish flame. Others have at¬ 
tributed the combustion to alcohol. A toper 
several years ago in Brooklyn and New York used 
to make money by blowing his breath through a 
wire gauze and lighting it. Whatever the cause, 
medical literature records seventy-six cases of 
catacausis in two hundred years. 

“ ‘The combustion seems to be sudden and is 
apparently confined to the cavities, the abdomen, 
chest, and head. Victims of ordinary fire acci¬ 
dents rush hither and thither frantically, succumb 
from exhaustion, their limbs are burned, and their 
clothing is all destroyed. But in catacausis they 
are stricken down without warning, the limbs are 
rarely burned, and only the clothing in contact 
with the head and chest is consumed. The resi¬ 
due is like a distillation of animal tissue, grey 
and dark, with an overpoweringly fetid odour. 
They are said to burn with a flickering stifled blue 
flame, and water, far from arresting the combus¬ 
tion, seems to add to it. Gin is particularly rich 
in inflammable, empyreumatic oils, as they are 
called, and in most cases it is recorded that the 
catacausis took place among gin-drinkers, old and 
obese. 

“ ‘Within the past few years cases are on 
record which seem to establish catacausis beyond 
doubt. In one case the heat was so great as to 


238 


THE SILENT BULLET 


explode a pistol in the pocket of the victim. In 
another, a woman, the victim’s husband was 
asphyxiated by the smoke. The woman weighed 
one hundred and eighty pounds in life, but the 
ashes weighed only twelve pounds. In all these 
cases the proof of spontaneous combustion seems 
conclusive.’ ” 

As Craig finished reading, we looked blankly, 
horrified, at one another. It was too dreadful to 
realise. 

“What do you think of it, Professor?” asked 
James Langley, at length. “I’ve read somewhere 
of such cases, but to think of its actually hap¬ 
pening—and to my own brother. Do you really 
think Lewis could have met his death in this ter¬ 
rible manner?” 

Kennedy made no reply. Harrington seemed 
absorbed in thought. A shudder passed over us 
as we thought about it. But, gruesome as it was, 
it was evident that the publication of the story in 
the Record had relieved the feelings of the family 
group in one respect—it at least seemed to offer 
an explanation. It was noticeable that the sus¬ 
picious air with which everyone had regarded 
everyone else was considerably dispelled 

Tom said nothing until the others had with¬ 
drawn. “Kennedy,” he burst out, then, “do you 
believe that such combustion is absolutely spon¬ 
taneous? Don’t you believe that something elsa 
is necessary to start it?” 


‘ ‘ SPONTANEOUS * COMBUSTION ’ ’ 239 


“I’d rather not express an opinion just yet, 
Tom,” answered Craig carefully. “Now, if you 
can get Harrington and Doctor Putnam away 
from the house for a short time, as you did with 
your uncle and cousin this morning, I may he able 
to tell you something about this case soon.” • 

Again Kennedy stole into another bed-room, * 
and returned to our room with a hunting-jacket. 
Just as he had done before, he carefully washed 
it off with the gauze soaked in the salt solution 
and quickly returned the coat, repeating the pro¬ 
cess with Doctor Putnam’s coat and, last, that of 
Tom himself. Finally he turned his back while 
I sealed the glasses and marked and recorded 
them on my slip. 

The next day was spent mainly in preparations 
for the journey to New York with the body of 
Lewis Langley. Kennedy was very busy on what 
seemed to me to be preparations for some mys¬ 
terious chemical experiments. I found myself 
fully occupied in keeping special correspondents 
from all over the country at bay. 

That evening after dinner we were all sitting 
in the open summer house over the boat-house. 
Smudges of green pine were burning and smoking 
on little artificial islands of stone near the lake 
shore, lighting up the trees on every side with a 
red glare. Tom and his sister were seated with 
Kennedy and myself on one side, while some dis¬ 
tance from us Harrington was engaged in earnest 


240 


THE SILENT BULLET 

conversation with Isabelle. The other members 
of the family were further removed. That 
seemed typical to me of the way the family group 
split up. 

“Mr. Kennedy,” remarked Grace in a thought¬ 
ful, low tone, “what do you make of that Record 
article ? 9 9 

“Very clever, no doubt,” replied Craig. 

“But don’t you think it strange about the 
will?” 

“Hush,” whispered Tom, for Isabelle and Har¬ 
rington had ceased talking and might perhaps be 
0 listening. 

Just then one of the servants came up with a 
telegram. 

Tom hastily opened it and read the message 
eagerly in the corner of the summer house nearest 
one of the glowing smudges. I felt instinctively 
that it was from his lawyer. He turned and 
beckoned to Kennedy and myself. 

“What do you think of that?” he whispered 
hoarsely. 

We bent over and in the flickering light read 
the message: 

New York papers full of spontaneous combustion 
story. Record had exclusive story yesterday, but all 
papers to-day feature even more. Is it true? Please 
wire additional details at once. Also immediate instruc¬ 
tions regarding loss of will. Has been abstracted from 
safe. Could Lewis Langley have taken it himself ? Un- 


“SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION’’ 241 


less new facts soon must make loss public or issue state¬ 
ment Lewis Langley intestate. 

Daniel Clark. 

Tom looked blankly at Kennedy, and then at 
bis sister, who was sitting alone. I thought I 
could read what was passing in his mind. With 
all his faults Lewis Langley had been a good 
foster-parent to his adopted children. But it was 
all over now if the will was lost. 

“What can I do?” asked Tom hopelessly. “I 
have nothing to reply to him.” 

“But I have,” quietly returned Kennedy, 
deliberately folding up the message and handing 
it back. “Tell them all to be in the library in 
fifteen minutes. This message hurries me a bit, 
but I am prepared. You will have something to 
wire Mr. Clark after that.” Then he strode off 
toward the house, leaving us to gather the group 
together in considerable bewilderment. 

A quarter of an hour later we had all assem¬ 
bled in the library, across the hall from the room 
in which Lewis Langley had been found. As 
usual Kennedy began by leaping straight into the 
middle of his subject. 

“Early in the eighteenth century,” he com¬ 
menced slowly, “a woman was found burned to 
death. There were no clues, and the scientists of 
that time suggested spontaneous combustion. 
This explanation was accepted. The theory 


242 


THE SILENT BULLET 

always has been that the process of respiration by 
which the tissues of the body are used up and got 
rid of gives the body a temperature, and it has 
seemed that it may be possible, by preventing the 
escape of this heat, to set fire to th^ body.” 

We were leaning forward expectantly, horrified 
by the thought that perhaps, after all, the Record 
was correct. 

44 Now,” resumed Kennedy, his tone changing, 
“suppose we try a little experiment—one that 
was tried very convincingly by the immortal 
Liebig. Here is a sponge. I am going to soak 
it in gin from this bottle, the same that Mr. Lang¬ 
ley was drinking from on the night of the—er— 
the tragedy.” 

Kennedy took the saturated sponge and placed 
it in an agate-iron pan from the kitchen. Then 
he lighted it. The bluish flame shot upward, and 
in tense silence we watched it burn lower and 
lower, till all the alchohol was consumed. Then 
he picked up the sponge and passed it around. 
It was dry, but the sponge itself had not been 
singed. 

“We now know,” he continued, “that from 
the nature of combustion it is impossible for the 
human body to undergo spontaneous ignition or 
combustion in the way the scientific experts of the 
past century believed. Swathe the body in the 
thickest of non-conductors of heat, and what hap¬ 
pens? A profuse perspiration exudes, and before 


“SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION” 243 


such an ignition could possibly take place all the 
moisture of the body would have to be evapor¬ 
ated. As seventy-five per cent, or more of the 
body is water, it is evident that enormous heat 
would be necessary—moisture is the great safe¬ 
guard. The experiment which I have shown you 
could be duplicated with specimens of human 
organs preserved for years in alcohol in museums. 
They would burn just as this sponge—the speci¬ 
men itself would be very nearly uninjured by the 
burning of the alcohol.” 

“Then, Professor Kennedy, you maintain that 
my brother did not meet his death by such an 
accident?” asked James Langley. 

“Exactly that, sir,” replied Craig. “One of 
the most important aspects of the historic faith 
in this phenomenon is that of its skilful employ¬ 
ment in explaining away what would otherwise 
appear to be convincing circumstantial evidence 
in cases of accusations of murder.” 

“Then how do you explain Mr. Langley’s 
death?” demanded Harrington. “My theory of 
a spark from a cigar may be true, after all.” 

“I am coming to that in a moment,” answered 
Kennedy quietly. “My first suspicion was 
aroused by what not even Doctor Putnam seems 
to have noticed. The skull of Mr. Langley, char¬ 
red and consumed as it was, seemed to show 
marks of violence. It might have been from a 
fracture of the skull or it might have been an acci- 


244 t THE SILENT BULLET 

ident to his remains as they were being removed 
to the anteroom. Again, his tongue seemed as 
though it was protruding. That might have been 
natural suffocation, or it might have been from 
forcible strangulation. So far I had nothing but 
conjecture to work on. But in looking over the 
living-room I found near the table, on the hard¬ 
wood floor, a spot—just one little round spot. 
Now, deductions from spots, even if we know 
them to be blood, must be made very carefully. I 
did not know this to be a blood-spot, and so was 
very careful at first. 

“Let us assume it was a blood-spot, however. 
What did it show! It was just a little regular 
round spot, quite thick. Now, drops of blood 
falling only a few inches usually make a round 
spot with a smooth border. Still the surface on 
which the drop falls is quite as much a factor 
as the height from which it falls. If the surface 
is rough the border may be irregular. But this 
was a smooth surface and not absorbent. The 
thickness of a dried blood-spot on a non-absorb¬ 
ent surface is less the greater the height from 
which it has fallen. This was a thick spot. Now 
if it had fallen, say, six feet, the height of Mr. 
Langley, the spot would have been thin—some 
secondary spatters might have been seen, or at 
least an irregular edge around the spot. There¬ 
fore, if it was a blood-spot, it had fallen only one 
or two feet. I ascertained next that the lower 


“SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION” 245 


part of the body showed no wounds or bruises 
whatever. 

“Tracks of blood such as are left by dragging 
a bleeding body differ very greatly from tracks 
of arterial blood which are left when the victim 
has strength to move himself. Continuing my 
speculations, supposing it to be a blood-spot, what 
did it indicate? Clearly that Mr. Langley was 
struck by somebody on the head with a heavy 
instrument, perhaps in another part of the room, 
that he was choked, that as the drops of blood 
oozed from the wound on his head, he was 
dragged across the floor, in the direction of the 
fireplace—” 

“But, Professor Kennedy,” interrupted Doctor 
Putnam, “have you proved that the spot was a 
blood-spot? Might it not have been a paint-spot 
or something of that sort?” 

Kennedy had apparently been waiting for just 
such a question. 

“Ordinarily, water has no effect on paint,” he 
answered. “I found that the spot could be 
washed off with water. That is not all. I have 
a test for blood that is so delicately sensitive that 
the blood of an Egyptian mummy thousands of 
years old will respond to it. It was discovered 
by a German scientist, Doctor Uhlenhuth, and 
was no longer ago than last winter applied in 
England in connection with the Clapham murder. 
The suspected murderer declared that stains on 


246 THE SILENT BULLET 

his clothes were only spatters of paint, but the 
test proved them to be spatters of blood. Walter, 
bring in the cage with the rabbits.” 

I opened the door and took the cage from the 
groom, who had brought it up from the stable 
and stood waiting with it some distance away. 

“This test i's very simple, Doctor Putnam,” 
continued Craig, as I placed the cage on the table 
and Kennedy unwrapped the sterilised test-tubes. 
“A rabbit is inoculated with human blood, and 
after a time the serum that is taken from the 
rabbit supplies the material for the test. 

“I will insert this needle in one of these rab¬ 
bits which has been so inoculated and will draw 
off some of the serum, which I place in this test- 
tube to the right. The other rabbit has not been 
inoculated. I draw off some of its serum and' 
place that tube here on the left—we will call that 
our ‘control tube.’ It will check the results of 
our tests. 

“Wrapped up in this paper I have the scrap¬ 
ings of the spot which I found on the floor—just 
a few grains of dark, dried powder. To show 
how sensitive the test is, I will take only one of 
the smallest of these minute scrapings. I dis¬ 
solve it in this third tube with distilled water. I 
will even divide it in half, and place the other 
half in this fourth tube. 

“Next I add some of the serum of the uninocu¬ 
lated rabbit to the half in this tube. You observe, 


“SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION” 247 


nothing happens. I add a little of the serum of 
the inoculated rabbit to the other half in this other 
tube. Observe how delicate the test is—” 

Kennedy was leaning forward, almost oblivious 
of the rest of us in the room, talking almost as if 
to himself. We, too, had riveted our eyes on the 
tubes. 

As he added the serum from the inoculated 
rabbit, a cloudy milky ring formed almost im¬ 
mediately in the hitherto colourless, very dilute 
blood-solution. 

“That,” concluded Craig, triumphantly holding 
the tube aloft, “that conclusively proves that the 
little round spot on the hardwood floor was not 
paint, was not anything in this wide world but 
blood.” 

No one in the room said a word, but I knew 
there must have been someone there who thought 
volumes in the few minutes that elapsed. 

“Having found one blood-spot, I began to look 
about for more, but was able to find only two or 
three traces where spots seemed to have been. 
The fact is that the blood-spots had been appar- 
' ently carefully wiped up. That is an easy matter. 
Hot water and salt, or hot water alone, or even 
cold water, will make quite short work of fresh 
blood-spots—at least to all outward appearances. 
But nothing but a most thorough cleaning can con¬ 
ceal them from the Uhlenhuth test, even when they 
are apparently wiped out. It is a case of Lady 


248 THE SILENT BULLET 

Macbeth over again, crying in the face of modern 
science, ‘Out, out, damned spot.’ 

“I was able with sufficient definiteness to trace 
roughly a course of blood-spots from the fireplace 
to a point near the door of the living-room. But 
beyond the door, in the hall, nothing. 77 

“Still,” interrupted Harrington, “to get back 
to the facts in the case. They are perfectly in ac¬ 
cord either with my theory of the cigar or the 
Record's of spontaneous combustion. How do 
you account for the facts?” 

“I suppose you refer to the charred head, the 
burned neck, the upper chest cavity, while the 
arms and legs were untouched? 17 

“Yes, and then the body was found in the midst 
of combustible furniture that was not touched. 
It seems to me that even the spontaneous-com¬ 
bustion theory has considerable support in spite 
of this very interesting circumstantial evidence 
about blood-spots. Next to my own theory, the 
combustion theory seems most in harmony with 
the facts. 77 

“If you will go over in your mind all the points 
proved to have been discovered—not the added 
points in the Record story—I think you will agree 
with me that mine is a more logical interpretation 
than spontaneous combustion, 77 reasoned Craig. 
“Hear me out and you will see that the facts are 
more in harmony with my less fanciful explana¬ 
tion. No, someone struck Lewis Langley down 


“SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION” 249 


either in passion or in cold blood, and then, see¬ 
ing what he had done, made a desperate effort 
to destroy the evidence of violence. Consider my 
next discovery.” 

Kennedy placed the five glasses which I had 
carefully sealed and labelled on the table before 
us. 

“The next step,” he said, “was to find out 
whether any articles of clothing in the house 
showed marks that might be suspected of being 
blood-spots. And here I must beg the pardon of 
all in the room for intruding in their private 
wardrobes. But in this crisis it was absolutely 
necessary, and under such circumstances I never 
let ceremony stand before justice. 

“In these five glasses on the table I have the 
washings of spots from the clothing worn by 
Tom, Mr. James Langley, Junior, Harrington 
Brown, and Doctor Putnam. I am not going to 
tell you which is which—indeed I merely have 
them marked, and I do not know them myself. 
But Mr. Jameson has the marks with the names 
opposite on a piece of paper in his pocket. I 
am simply going to proceed with the tests to see 
if any of the stains on the coats were of blood.” 

Just then Doctor Putnam interposed. “One 
question, Professor Kennedy. It is a compara¬ 
tively easy thing to recognise a blood-stain, but 
it is difficult, usually impossible, to tell whether 
the blood is that of a man or of an animal. I 


250 THE SILENT BULLET 

recall that we were all in onr hunting-jackets that 
day, had been all day. Now, in the morning there 
had been an operation on one of the horses at the 
stable, and I assisted the veterinary from town. 

, I may have got a spot or two of blood on my coat 
from that operation. Do I understand that this 
test would show that?” 

“No,” replied Craig, “this test would not show 
that. Other tests would, but not this. But if 
the spot of human blood were less than the size 
of a pin-head, it would show—it would show if 
the spot contained even so little as one twenty- 
thousandth of a gram of albumin. Blood from 
a horse, a deer, a sheep, a pig, a dog, could be 
obtained, but when the test was applied the 
liquid in which they were diluted would remain 
clear. No white precipitin, as it is called, would 
? orm. But let human blood, ever so diluted, be 
idded to the serum of the inoculated rabbit, and 
>;he test is absolute.” 

A death-like silence seemed to pervade the 
room. Kennedy slowly and deliberately began 
;o test the contents of the glasses. Dropping into 
3ach, as he broke the seal, some of the serum of 
;he rabbit, he waited a moment to see if any 
change occurred. 

It was thrilling. I think no one could have 
^one through that fifteen minutes without having 
t indelibly impressed on his memory. I recall 
dunking as Kennedy took each glass, “Which is it 


“SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION” 251 


to be, guilt or innocence, life or death?” Could 
it be possible that a man’s life might hang on such 
a slender thread? I knew Kennedy was too 
accurate and serious to deceive us. It was not 
only possible, it was actually a fact. 

The first glass showed no reaction. Someone 
had been vindicated. 

The second was neutral likewise—another per¬ 
son in the room had been proved innocent. 

The third—no change. Science had released a 
third. 

The fourth— 

Almost it seemed as if the record in my pocket 
burned—spontaneously—so intense was my feel¬ 
ing. There in the glass was that fatal, telltale 
white precipitate. 

“My God, it’s the milk ring!” whispere 
close to my ear. 

Hastily Kennedy dropped the serum ii 
fifth. It remained as clear as crystal. 

My hand trembled as it touched the ei 
containing my record of the names. 

“The person who wore the coat with thal 
stain on it,” declared Kennedy solemnly 
the person who struck Lewis Langley dov 
choked him and then dragged his scarce! 
body across the floor and obliterated the 
of violence in the blazing log fire. Ja 
whose name is opposite the sign on this gk 

I could scarcely tear the seal to look 


252 


THE SILENT BULLET 

paper in the envelope. At last I unfolded it, and 
my eye fell on the name opposite the fatal sign. 
But my mouth was dry, and my tongue refused 
to move. It was too much like reading a death- 
sentence. With my finger on the name I faltered 
an instant. 

Tom leaned over my shoulder and read it to 
himself. “For Heaven’s sake, Jameson,” he 
cried, “let the ladies retire before you read the 
name.” 

“It’s not necessary,” said a thick voice. “We 
quarrelled over the estate. My share’s mort¬ 
gaged up to the limit, and Lewis refused to lend 
me more even until I could get Isabelle happily 
married. Now Lewis’s goes to an outsider— 
Harrington, boy, take care of Isabelle, fortune 
or no fortune. Good—” 

Someone seized James Langley’s arm as he 
pressed an automatic revolver to his temple. He 
reeled like a drunken man and dropped the gun 
on the floor with an oath. 

“Beaten again,” he muttered. “Forgot to 
move the ratchet from 4 safety’ to ‘fire.’ ” 

Like a madman he wrenched himself loose from 
us, sprang through the door, and darted up¬ 
stairs. “I’ll show you some combustion!” he 
shouted back fiercely. 

Kennedy was after him like a flash. “The 
will!” he cried. 

We literally tore the door oft its hinges and 


“SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION” 253 


burst into James Langley’s room. He was bend¬ 
ing eagerly over the fireplace. Kennedy made a 
flying leap at him. Just enough of the will was 
left unburned to be admitted to probate. 


IX 


THE TERROR 1ST THE AIR 

s 1 There's something queer about these aeroplane 
accidents at Belmore Park,” mused Kennedy, one 
evening, as his eye caught a big headline in the 
last edition of the Star, which I had brought up¬ 
town with me. 

“Queer?” I echoed. “Unfortunate, terrible, 
but hardly queer. Why, it is a common saying 
among the aeronauts that if they keep at it long 
enough they will all lose their lives.” 

“Yes, I know that,” rejoined Kennedy; “but, 
Walter, have you noticed that all these accidents 
have happened to Norton’s new gyroscope ma¬ 
chines ? ’ ’ 

“Well, what of that?” I replied. “Isn’t it just 
barely possible that Norton is on the wrong track 
in applying the gyroscope to an aeroplane? I 
can’t say I know much about either the gyroscope 
or the aeroplane, but from what I hear the fellows 
at the office say it would seem to me that the 
gyroscope is a pretty good thing to keep off an 
aeroplane, not to put on it.” 

“Why?” asked Kennedy blandly. 

“Well, it seems to me, from what the experts 

254 


THE TERROR IN THE AIR 255 

say, that anything which tends to keep your ma¬ 
chine in one position is just what yon don’t want 
in an aeroplane. What surprises them, they say, 
is that the thing seems to work so well up to a 
certain point—that the accidents don’t happen 
sooner. Why, our man on the aviation field tells 
me that when that poor fellow Browne was killed 
he had all but succeeded in bringing his machine 
to a dead stop in the air. In other words, he 
would have won the Brooks Prize for perfect mo¬ 
tionlessness in one place. And then Herrick, the 
day before, was going about seventy miles an 
hour when he collapsed. They said it was heart 
failure. But to-night another expert says in the 
Star —here, I’ll read it: ‘The real cause was car¬ 
bonic-acid-gas poisoning due to the pressure on 
the mouth from driving fast through the air, and 
the consequent inability to expel the poisoned 
air which had been breathed. Air once breathed 
is practically carbonic-acid-gas. When one is 
[passing rapidly through the air this carbonic- 
acid-gas is pushed back into the lungs, and only 
a little can get away because of the rush of air 
pressure into the mouth. So it is rebreathed, and 
the result is gradual carbonic-acid-gas poisoning, 
which produces a kind of narcotic sleep.’ ” 

“Then it wasn’t the gyroscope in that case?” 
said Kennedy with a rising inflection. 

“No,” I admitted reluctantly, “perhaps not.” 

I could see that I had been rash in talking so 


256 THE SILENT BULLET 

long. Kennedy had only been sounding me to 
see what the newspapers thought of it. His next 
remark was characteristic. 

“Norton has asked me to look into the thing ,’* 
he said quietly. “If his invention is a failure, 
! he is a ruined man. All his money is in it, he is 
suing a man for infringing on his patent, and he 
is liable for damages to the heirs, according to 
his agreement with Browne and Herrick. I have 
known Norton some time; in fact, he worked out 
his ideas at the university physical laboratory. 
I have flown in his machine, and it is the most 
marvellous biplane I ever saw. Walter, I want 
you to get a Belmore Park assignment from the 
Star and go out to the aviation meet with me to¬ 
morrow. I’ll take you on the field, around the 
machines—you can get enough local colour to do 
a dozen Star specials later on. I may add that 
devising a flying-machine capable of remaining 
stationary in the air means a revolution that will 
relegate all other machines to the scrap-heap. 
From a military point of view it is the one thing 
necessary to make the aeroplane the superior in 
every respect to the dirigible.” 

The regular contests did not begin until the 
afternoon, but Kennedy and I decided to make a 
day of it, and early the next morning we were 
speeding out to the park where the flights were 
being held. 

We found Charles Norton, the inventor, anx~ 


THE TERROR IN THE AIR 257 

iously at work with his mechanicians in the big 
temporary shed that had been accorded him, and 
was dignified with the name of hangar. 

“I knew yon would come, Professor/’ he ex¬ 
claimed, running forward to meet us. 

44 Of course, ’ ’ echoed Kennedy. “ I’m too much 
interested in this invention of yours not to help 
you, Norton. You know what I’ve always 
thought of it—I’ve told you often that it is the 
most important advance since the original discov¬ 
ery by the Wrights that the aeroplane could be 
balanced by warping the planes.” 

4 ‘I’m just fixing up my third machine,” said 
Norton. “If anything happens to it, I shall lose 
the prize, at least as far as this meet is concerned, 
for I don’t believe I shall get my fourth and new¬ 
est model from the makers in time. Anyhow, if 
I did I couldn’t pay for it—I am ruined, if I don’t 
win that twenty-five-thousand-dollar Brooks 
Prize. And, besides, a couple of army men are 
coming to inspect my aeroplane and report to the 
War Department on it. I’d have stood a good 
chance of selling it, I think, if my flights here had 
been like the trials you saw. But, Kennedy,” he 
added, and his face was drawn and tragic, “I’d 
drop the whole thing if I didn’t know I was right. 
Two men dead—think of it. Why, even the news¬ 
papers are beginning to call me a cold, heartless, 
scientific crank to keep on. But I’ll show them— 
this afternoon I’m going to fly myself. I’m not 


258 THE SILENT BULLET 

afraid to go anywhere I send my men. I’ll die 
before I’ll admit I’m beaten.” 

It was easy to see why Kennedy was fascinated 
by a man of Norton’s type. Anyone would have 
been. It was not foolhardiness. It was dogged 
determination, faith in himself and in his own 
ability to triumph over every obstacle. 

We now slowly entered the shed where two men 
were working over Norton’s biplane. One of the 
men was a Frenchman, Jaurette, who had worked 
with Farman, a silent, dark-browed, weather¬ 
beaten fellow with a sort of sullen politeness. 
The other man was an American, Boy Sinclair, a 
tall, lithe, wiry chap with a seamed and furrowed 
face and a* loose-jointed but very deft manner 
which marked him a born bird-man. Norton’s 
third aviator, Humphreys, who was not to fly that 
day, much to his relief, was reading a paper in the 
back of the shed. 

We were introduced to him, and he seemed to 
be a very companionable sort of fellow, though 
not given to talking. 

“Mr. Norton,” he said, after the introduction, 
“there’s quite an account of your injunction 
against Delanne in this paper. It doesn’t seem 
to be very friendly,” he added, indicating the 
article. 

Norton read it and frowned. “Humph! I’ll 
show them yet that my application of the gyro¬ 
scope is patentable. Delanne will put me into 


THE TERROR IN THE AIR 259 

‘ interference ’ in the patent office, as the lawyers 
call it, will he? Well, I filed a ‘caveat’ over a 
year and a half ago. If I’m wrong, he’s wrong, 
and all gyroscope patents are wrong, and if I’m 
right, by George, I’m first in the field. That’s 
so, isn’t it?” he appealed to Kennedy. 

Kennedy shrngged his shoulders non-commit¬ 
tally, as if he had never heard of the patent office 
or the gyroscope in his life. The men were lis¬ 
tening, whether or not from loyalty I could not 
tell. 

“Let us see your gyroplane, I mean aeroscope 
—whatever it is you call it,” asked Kennedy. 

Norton took the cue. “Now you newspaper 
men are the first that I’ve allowed in here,” he 
said. “Can I trust your word of honour not to 
publish a line except such as I 0. K. after you 
write it?” 

We promised. 

As Norton directed, the mechanicians wheeled 
the aeroplane out on the field in front of the shed. 
No one was about. 

“Now this is the gyroscope,” began Norton* 
pointing out a thing encased in an aluminum, 
sheath, which weighed, all told, perhaps fourteen 
or fifteen pounds. “You see, the gyroscope is 
really a flywheel mounted on gimbals and can turn 
on any of its axes so that it can assume any angln 
in space. When it’s at rest like this you can 
turn it easily. But when set revolving it tends 


260 


THE SILENT BULLET 

to persist always in the plane in which it was 
started rotating/’ 

I took hold of it, and it did turn readily in any 
direction. I could feel the heavy little flywheel 
inside. 

“ There is a pretty high vacuum in that alumi¬ 
num case, ’ ’ went on Norton. ‘ ‘ There’s very little 
friction on that account. The power to rotate 
the flywheel is obtained from this little dynamo 
here, run by the gas-engine which also turns the 
propellers of the aeroplane/’ 

“But suppose the engine stops, how about the 
gyre /coper’ I asked sceptically. 

“It will go right on for several minutes. You 
know, the Brennan monorail car will stand up 
some time after the power is shut off. And I 
carry a small storage-battery that will run it for 
some time, too. That’s all been guarded 
against.” 

Jaurette cranked the engine, a seven-cylindered 
affair, with the cylinders sticking out like the 
spokes of a wheel without a rim. The propellers 

turned so fast that I could not see the blades _ 

turned with that strong, steady, fierce droning 
buzz that can be heard a long distance and which 
is a thrilling sound to hear. Norton reached 
over and attached the little dynamo, at the same 
time setting the gyroscope at its proper angle and 
starting it. 

“This is the mechanical brain of my new flier,” 


THE TERROR IN THE AIR 261 

lie remarked, patting the aluminum case lovingly. 
“You can look in through this little window in 
the case and see the flywheel inside revolving— 
ten thousand revolutions a minute. Press down 
on the gyroscope/ ’ he shouted to me. 

As I placed both hands on the case of the ap¬ 
parently frail little instrument, he added, “You 
remember how easily you moved it just a moment 
ago.” 

I pressed down with all my might. Then I lit¬ 
erally raised myself off my feet, and my whole 
weight was on the gyroscope. That uncanny 
little instrument seemed to resent—yes, that’s 
the word, resent—my touch. It was almost hu¬ 
man in the resentment, too. Far from yielding 
to me, it actually rose on the side I was pressing 
down! 

The men who were watching me laughed at the 
puzzled look on my face. 

I took my hands off, and the gyroscope lei¬ 
surely and nonchalantly went back to its original 
position. 

“That’s the property we use, applied to the 
rudder and the ailerons—those flat planes be¬ 
tween the large main planes. That gives auto¬ 
matic stability to the machine,” continued Norton. 
“I’m not going to explain how it is done—it is, 
in the combination of the various parts that I 
have discovered the basic principle, and I’m not 
going to talk about it till the thing is settled by 


262 


THE SILENT BULLET 


the courts. But it is there, and the court will 
see it, and I’ll prove that Delanne is a fraud—a 
fraud when he says that my combiliation isn’t 
patentable and isn’t practicable even at that! 
The truth is that his device as it stands isn’t 
practicable, and, besides, if he makes it so it in¬ 
fringes on mine. Would you like to take a flight 
with me?” 

I looked at Kennedy, and a vision of the wreck¬ 
age of the two previous accidents, as the Star 
photographer had snapped them, flashed across 
my mind. But Kennedy was too quick for me. 

“Yes,” he answered. “A short flight. No 
stunts.” 

We took our seats by Norton, I, at least, with 
some misgiving. Gently the machine rose into 
the air. The sensation was delightful. The 
fresh air of the morning came with a stinging 
rush to my face.* Below I could see the earth 
sweeping past as if it were a moving-picture film. 
Above the continuous roar of the engine and pro¬ 
peller Norton indicated to Kennedy the automatic 
balancing of the gyroscope as it bent the ailerons. 

“Could you fly in this machine without the 
gyroscope at all?” yelled Kennedy. The noise 
was deafening, conversation almost impossible. 
Though sitting side by side he had to repeat his 
remark twice to Norton. 

“Yes,” called back Norton. Beaching back of 
him, he pointed out the way to detach the gyro- 


THE TERROR IN THE AIR 263 


scope and put a sort of brake on it that stopped 
its revolutions almost instantly. “It’s a ticklish 
job to change in the air,” he shouted. “It can 
be done, but it’s safer to land and do it.” 

The flight was soon over, and we stood admir¬ 
ing the machine while Norton expatiated on the, 
compactness of his little dynamo. 

“What have yon done with the wrecks of the 
other machines?” inquired Kennedy at length. 

“They are stored in a shed down near the rail¬ 
road station. They are just a mass of junk, 
though there are some parts that I can use, so 
I’ll ship them back to the factory.” 

“Might I have a look at them?” 

“Surely. I’ll give you the key. Sorry I can’t 
go myself, but I want to be sure everything is all 
right for my flight this afternoon.” 

It was a long walk over to the shed near the 
station, and, together with our examination of the 
wrecked machines, it took us the" rest of the morn¬ 
ing. Craig carefully turned over the wreckage. 
It seemed a hopeless quest to me, but I fancied 
that to him it merely presented new problems for 
his deductive and scientific mind. 

“These gyroscopes are out of business for 
good,” he remarked as he glanced at the dented 
and battered aluminum cases. “But there 
doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with them ex¬ 
cept what would naturally happen in such acci¬ 
dents.” 


264 THE SILENT BULLET 

For my part I felt a sort of awe at the mass of 
wreckage m which Browne and Herrick had been 
killed. It was to me more than a tangled mass of 
wires and splinters. Two human lives had been 
snuffed out in it. 

“The engines are a mass of scrap; see how the 
cylinders are bent and twisted/ ’ remarked Ken¬ 
nedy with great interest. “The gasoline-tank is 
intact, but dented out of shape. No explosion 
there. And look at this dynamo. Why, the wires 
in it are actually fused together. The insulation 
has been completely burned off. I wonder what 
could have caused that?” 

Kennedy continued to regard the tangled mass 
thoughtfully for some time, then locked the door, 
and we strolled back to the grand stand on our 
side of the field. Already the crowd had begun 
to collect. Across the field we could see the vari¬ 
ous machines in front of their hangars with the 
men working on them. The buzz of the engines 
was wafted across by the light summer breeze as 
if a thousand cicadas had broken loose to predict 
warm weather. 

Two machines were already in flight, a little 
yellow Demoiselle, scurrying around close to the 
earth like a frightened hen, and a Bleriot, high 
overhead, making slow and graceful turns like a 
huge bird. 

Kennedy and I stopped before the little wire¬ 
less telegraph station of the signal corps in front 


THE TERROR IN THE AIR 265 

of the grand stand and watched the operator 
working over his instruments. 

“There it is again,” muttered the operator 
angrily. 

“What’s the matter?” asked Kennedy. “Am¬ 
ateurs interfering with you?” 

The man nodded a reply, shaking his head with 
the telephone-like receiver, viciously. He con¬ 
tinued to adjust his apparatus. 

“Confound it!” he exclaimed. “Yes, that fel¬ 
low has been jamming me for the past two days 
off and on, every time I get ready to send or re¬ 
ceive a message. Williams is going up with a 
Wright machine equipped with wireless appara¬ 
tus in a minute, and this fellow won’t get out of 
the way. By Jove, though, those are powerful 
impulses of his. Hear that crackling? I’ve 
never been interfered with so in my experience. 
Touch that screen door with your knife.” 

Kennedy did so, and elicited large sparks with 
quite a tingle of a shock. 

“Yesterday and the day before it was so bad 
we had to give up attempting to communicate 
with Williams, ’ ’ continued the operator. ‘ ‘ It was 
worse than trying to work in a thunder-shower. 
That’s the time we get our troubles, when the air 
is overcharged with electricity, as it is now.” 

“That’s interesting,” remarked Kennedy. 

“Interesting?” flashed back the operator, 
angrily noting the condition in his “log book.” 


266 THE SILENT BULLET 

“Maybe it is, but I call it darned mean. It’s al¬ 
most like trying to work in a power station.’’ 

“Indeed?” queried Kennedy. “I beg your 
pardon—I was only looking at it from the purely 
scientific point of view. Who is it, do you sup¬ 
pose?” 

“How do I know? Some amateur, I guess. 
No professional would butt in this way.” 

Kennedy took a leaf out of his note-book and 
wrote a short message which he gave to a boy 
to deliver to Norton. 

“Detach your gyroscope and dynamo,” it read. 
“Leave them in the hangar. Fly without them 
this afternoon, and see what happens. No use to 
try for the prize to-day. Kennedy.” 

We sauntered out on the open part of the field, 
back of the fence and to the side of the stands, and 
watched the fliers for a few moments. Three 
were in the air now, and I could see Norton and 
his men getting ready. 

The boy with the message was going rapidly 
across the field. Kennedy was impatiently 
watching him. It was too far off to see just what 
they were doing, but as Norton seemed to get 
down out of his seat in the aeroplane when the 
boy arrived, and it was wheeled back into the 
shed, I gathered that he was detaching the gyro¬ 
scope and was going to make the flight without 
it, as Kennedy had requested. 

In a few minutes it was again wheeled out. 


THE TERROR IN THE AIR 267 

The crowd, which had been waiting especially to 
see Norton, applanded. 

“Come, Walter,’’ exclaimed Kennedy, “let’s 
go up there on the roof of the stand where we can 
. see better. There’s a platform and railing, I 
see.” 

His pass allowed him to go anywhere on the 
field, so in a few moments we were up on the 
roof. 

It was a fascinating vantage-point, and I was 
so deeply engrossed between watching the crowd 
below, the bird-men in the air, and the machines 
waiting across the field that I totally neglected to 
notice what Kennedy was doing. When I did, I 
saw that he had deliberately turned his back on 
the aviation field, and was anxiously scanning the 
country back of us. 

“What are you looking for?” I asked. “Turn 
around. I think Norton is just about to fly.” 

‘‘ Watch him then,’’ answered Craig. “Tell me 
when he gets in the air. ’ ’ 

Just then Norton’s aeroplane rose gently from 
the field. A wild shout of applause came from 
the people below us, at the heroism of the man 
who dared to fly this new and apparently fated 
machine. It was succeeded by a breathless, 
deathly calm, as if after the first burst of enthu¬ 
siasm the crowd had suddenly realised the danger 
of the intrepid aviator. Would Norton add a 
third to the fatalities of the meet? 


268 THE SILENT BULLET 

Suddenly Kennedy jerked my arm. “Walter, 
look over there across the road back of us—at 
the old weather-beaten barn. I mean the one next 
to that yellow house. What do you see?” 

“Nothing, except that on the peak of the roof 
there is a pole that looks like the short stub of a, 
small wireless mast. I should say there was a 
buy connected with that barn, a boy who has read 
a book on wireless for beginners.” 

“Maybe,” said Kennedy. “But is that all you 
see? Look up in the little window of the gable, 
the one with the closed shutter.” 

I looked carefully. “It seems to me that I saw 
a gleam of something bright at the top of the shut¬ 
ter, Craig,” I ventured. “A spark or a flash.” 

“It must be a bright spark, for the sun is shin¬ 
ing brightly,” mused Craig. 

“Oh, maybe it’s the small boy with a looking- 
glass. I can remember when I used to get be¬ 
hind such a window and shine a glass into the 
darkened room of my neighbours across the 
street.” 

I had really said that half in raillery, for I was 
at a loss to account in any other way for the light, 
but I was surprised to see how eagerly Craig ac¬ 
cepted it. 

“Perhaps you are right, in a way,” he as¬ 
sented. “I guess it isn’t a spark, after all. Yes, 
it must be the reflection of the sun on a piece of 
glass—the angles are just about right for it. 


THE TERROR IN THE AIR 269 

Anyhow it caught my eye. Still, I believe that 
barn will bear watching.’’ 

Whatever his suspicions, Craig kept them to 
himself, and descended. At the same time Nor¬ 
ton gently dropped back to earth in front of his 
hangar, not ten feet from the spot where he 
started. The applause was deafening, as the ma¬ 
chine was again wheeled into the shed safely. 

Kennedy and I pushed through the crowd to 
the wireless operator. 

“How’s she working!” inquired Craig. 

“Rotten,” replied the operator sullenly. “It 
was worse than ever about five minutes ago. It’s 
much better now, almost normal again.” 

Just then the messenger-boy, who had been 
hunting through the crowd for us, handed Ken¬ 
nedy a note. It was merely a scrawl from Nor¬ 
ton: 

“Everything seems fine. Am going to try her next 
with the gyroscope. Norton.” 

“Boy,” exclaimed Craig, “has Mr. Norton a 
telephone!” 

“No, sir,, only that hangar at the end has a 
telephone. ’ ’ 

“Well, you run across that field as fast as your 
legs can carry you and tell him if he values his 
life not to do it.” 

“Not to do what, sir!” 


270 THE SILENT BULLET 

“Don’t stand there, youngster. Run! Tell 
him not to fly with that gyroscope. There’s a 
five-spot in it if yon get over there before he 
starts.” 

Even as he spoke the Norton aeroplane was 
wheeled ont again. In a minute Norton had 
climbed up into his seat and was testing the lev¬ 
ers. 

Would the boy reach him in time ? He was half 
across the field, waving his arms like mad. But 
apparently Norton and his men were too en¬ 
grossed in their machine to pay attention. 

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Craig. “He’s 
going to try it. Run, boy, run!” he cried, al¬ 
though the boy was now far out of hearing. 

Across the field we could hear now the quick 
staccato chug-chug of the engine. Slowly Nor¬ 
ton’s aeroplane, this time really equipped with 
the gyroscope, rose from the field and circled over 
toward us. Craig frantically signalled to him to 
come down, but of course Norton could not have 
seen him in the crowd. As for the crowd, they 
looked askance at Kennedy, as if he had taken 
leave of his senses. 

I heard the wireless operator cursing the way 
his receiver was acting. 

Higher and higher Norton went in one spiral 
after another, those spirals which his gyroscope 
had already made famous. 

The man with the megaphone in front of the 


THE TERROR IN THE AIR 271 

fudge’s stand announced in hollow tones that Mr. 
Norton had given notice that he would try for the 
Brooks Prize for stationary equilibrium. 

Kennedy and I stood speechless, helpless, ap¬ 
palled. 

Slower and slower went the aeroplane. It 
iseemed to hover just like the big mechanical bird 
that it was. 

Kennedy was anxiously watching the judges 
with one eye and Norton with the other. A few 
in the crowd could no longer restrain their ap¬ 
plause. I remember that the wireless back of us 
was spluttering and crackling like mad. 

All of a sudden a groan swept over the crowd. 
Something was wrong with Norton. His aero¬ 
plane was swooping downward at a terrific rate. 
.Would he be able to control it? I held my breath 
and gripped Kennedy by the arm. Down, down 
came Norton, frantically fighting by main 
strength, it seemed to me, to warp the planes so 
that their surface might catch the air and check 
his descent. 

“He’s trying to detach the gyroscope,” whis¬ 
pered Craig hoarsely. 

The football helmet which Norton wore blew 
off and fell more rapidly than the plane. I shut 
my eyes. But Kennedy’s next exclamation 
caused me quickly to open them again. 

“He’ll make it, after all!” 

Somehow Norton had regained partial control 


272 THE SILENT BULLET 

of his machine, but it was still swooping down 
at a tremendous pace toward the level centre of 
the field. 

There was a crash as it struck the ground in a 
cloud of dust. 

With a leap Kennedy had cleared the fence and 
was running toward Norton. Two men from the 
judge’s stand were ahead of us, but except for 
them we were the first to reach him. The men 
were tearing frantically at the tangled frame¬ 
work, trying to lift it off Norton, who lay pale 
and motionless, pinned under it. The machine 
was not so badly damaged, after all, but that to¬ 
gether we could lift it bodily off him. 

A doctor ran out from the crowd and hastily 
put his ear to Norton’s chest. No one spoke, but 
we all scanned the doctor’s face anxiously. 

“ Just stunned—he’ll be all right in a moment. 
Get some water,” he said. 

Kennedy pulled my arm. “Look at the gyro¬ 
scope dynamo,” he whispered. 

I looked. Like the other two which we had 
seen, it also was a wreck. The insulation was 
burned off the wires, the wires were fused to¬ 
gether, and the storage-battery looked as if it had 
been burned out. 

A flicker of the eyelid and Norton seemed to 
regain some degree of consciousness. He was liv¬ 
ing over again the ages that had passed during 
the seconds of his terrible fall. 


THE TERROR IN THE AIR 273 

“Will they never stop! Oh, those sparks, 
those sparks! I can’t disconnect it. Sparks, 
more sparks—will they never—” So he rambled 
on. It was fearsome to hear him. 

But Kennedy was now sure that Norton was 
safe and in good hands, and he hurried back in 
the direction of the grand stand. I followed. 
Flying was over for that day, and the people 
were filing slowly out toward the railroad station 
where the special trains were waiting. We 
stopped at the wireless station for a moment. 

“Is it true that Norton will recover?” inquired 
the operator. 

“Yes. He was only stunned, thank Heaven! 
Did you keep a record of the antics of your re¬ 
ceiver since I saw you last?” 

“Yes, sir. And I made a copy for you. By 
the way, it’s working all right now when I don’t 
want it. If Williams was only in the air now I’d 
give you a good demonstration of communicating 
with an aeroplane,” continued the operator as he 
prepared to leave. 

Kennedy thanked him for the record and care¬ 
fully folded it. Joining the crowd, we pushed our 
way out, but instead of going down to the station 
with them, Kennedy turned toward the barn and 
the yellow house. 

For some time we waited about casually, but 
nothing occurred. At length Kennedy walked up 
to the shed. The door was closed and double 


274 THE SILENT BULLET 

padlocked. He knocked, but there was no an¬ 
swer. 

Just then a man appeared on the porch of the 
yellow house. Seeing us, he beckoned. As we 
approached he shouted, “He’s gone for the day!” 

“Has he a city address—any place I could 
reach him to-night?” asked Craig. 

“I don’t know. He hired the barn from me 
for two weeks and paid in advance. He told me 
if I wanted to address him the best way was 6 Dr. 
K. Lamar, General Delivery, New York City.’ ” 

“Ah, then I suppose I had better write to him,” 
said Kennedy, apparently much gratified to learn 
the name. “I presume he’ll be taking away his 
apparatus soon?” 

“Can’t say. There’s enough of it. Cy Smith 
—he’s in the electric light company up to the vil¬ 
lage—says the doctor has used a powerful lot of 
current. He’s good pay, though he’s awful close- 
mouthed. Flying’s over for to-day, ain’t it? 
Was that feller much hurt?” 

“No, he’ll be all right to-morrow. I think he’ll 
ifly again. The machine’s in pretty good condi-. 
tion. He’s bound to win that prize. Good-bye.”' 

As he walked away I remarked, “How do you : 
know Norton will fly again?” 

“I don’t,” answered Kennedy, “but I think 
that either he or Humphreys will. I wanted to see 
that this Lamar believes it anyhow. By the way, 
Walter, do you think you could grab a wire here 


THE TERROR IN THE AIR 275 

and ’phone in a story to the Star that Norton 
isn’t much hurt and will probably be able to fly 
to-morrow? Try to get the City News Associa¬ 
tion, too, so that all the papers will have it. I 
I don’t care about risking the general delivery— 
perhaps Lamar won’t call for any mail, but he 
certainly will read the papers. Put it in the form 
of an interview with Norton—I’ll see that it is 
all right and that there is no come-back. Norton 
will stand for it when I tell him my scheme.” 

I caught the Star just in time for the last edi¬ 
tion, and some of the other papers that had later 
editions also had the story. Of course all the 
morning papers had it. 

Norton spent the night in the Mineola Hospital. 
He didn’t really need to stay, but the doctor said 
it would be best in case some internal injury had 
been overlooked. Meanwhile Kennedy took 
charge of the hangar where the injured machine 
was. The men had been in a sort of panic; Hum¬ 
phreys could not be found, and the only reason, 
I think, why the two mechanicians stayed was be¬ 
cause something was due them on their pay. 

( Kennedy wrote them out personal checks for 
their respective amounts, but dated them two days 
ahead to insure their staying. He threw off all 
disguise now and with authority from Norton di¬ 
rected the repairing of the machine. Fortunately 
it was in pretty good condition. The broken part 
was the skids, not the essential parts of the ma- 


7 

u>± Liieiu emu. axxuiiic:! u.j j-iaixivj, xxxxva ±o vVixS ia. vv,iy 

simple tiling to replace tlie old one that had been 
destroyed. 

Sinclair worked with a will, far past his regu¬ 
lar hours. Jaurette also worked, though one 
could hardly say with a will. In fact, most of 
the work was done by Sinclair and Kennedy, with 
Jaurette sullenly grumbling, mostly in French 
under his breath. I did not like the fellow and 
was suspicious of him. I thought I noticed that 
Kennedy did not allow him to do much of the 
work, either, though that may have been for the 
reason that Kennedy never asked anyone to help 
him who seemed unwilling. 

“There,” exclaimed Craig about ten o’clock. 
“If we want to get back to the city in any kind 
of time to-night we had better quit. Sinclair, I 
think you can finish repairing these skids in the 
morning. ’ ’ 

We locked up the hangar and hurried across 
to the station. It was late when we arrived in 
New York, but Kennedy insisted on posting off 
up to his laboratory, leaving me to run down to 
the Star office to make sure that our story was all 
right for the morning papers. 

I did not see him until morning, when a large 
touring-car drove up. Kennedy routed me out of 
bed. In the tonneau of the car was a huge pack¬ 
age carefully wrapped up. 


THE TERROR IN 


“Something I worked on 
last night,’’ explained Craig, patting it. “If this 
doesn’t solve the problem then I’ll give it np.” 

I was burning with curiosity, hut somehow, by 
a perverse association of ideas, I merely re¬ 
proached Kennedy for not taking enough rest. 

“Oh,” he smiled. “If I hadn’t been working 
last night, Walter, I couldn’t have rested at all 
for thinking about it. ’ ’ 

When we arrived at the field Norton was al¬ 
ready there with his head bandaged. I thought 
him a little pale, hut otherwise all right. Jaur- 
ette was sulking, but Sinclair had finished the re¬ 
pairs and was busily engaged in going over every 
bolt and wire. Humphreys had sent word that 
he had another otter and had not shown rip. 

“We must find him,” exclaimed Kennedy. “I 
want him to make a flight to-day. His contract 
calls for it.” 

“I can do it, Kennedy,” asserted Norton. 
“See, I’m all right.” 

He picked up two pieces of wire and held them 
at arm’s length, bringing them together, tip to 
tip, in front of him just to show us how he could 
control his nerves. 

“And I’ll be better yet by this afternoon,” He 
added. “I can do that stunt with the points of 
pins then.” 

Kennedy shook his head gravely, but Norton 
insisted, and finally Kennedy agreed to give up 


278 THE SILENT BULLET 

wasting time trying to locate Humphreys. After 
that he and Norton had a long whispered confer¬ 
ence in which Kennedy seemed to he unfolding 
a scheme. 

“I understand,” said Norton at length, “you 
want me to put this sheet-lead cover over the dy¬ 
namo and battery first. Then you want me to 
take the cover off, and also to detach the gyro¬ 
scope, and to fly without using it. Is that it ? ” 

“Yes,” assented Craig. “I will be on the roof 
of the grand stand. The signal will be three 
waves of my hat repeated till I see you get it.” 

After a quick luncheon we went up to our van¬ 
tage-point. On the way Kennedy*had spoken to 
the head of the Pinkertons engaged by the man¬ 
agement for the meet, and had also dropped in to 
see the wireless operator to ask him to send up a 
messenger if. he saw the same phenomena as he 
had observed the day before. 

On the roof Kennedy took from his pocket a 
little instrument with a needle which trembled 
back and forth over a dial. It was nearing the 
time for the start of the day’s flying, and the 
aeroplanes were getting ready. Kennedy was 
calmly biting a cigar, casting occasional glances 
at the needle as it oscillated. Suddenly, as Wil¬ 
liams rose in the Wright machine, the needle 
swung quickly and pointed straight at the avia¬ 
tion field, vibrating through a small arc, back and 
forth. 


THE TERROR IN THE AIR 279 

“The operator is getting his apparatus ready 
to signal to Williams,” remarked Craig. “This 
is an apparatus called an ondometer. It tells 
you the direction and something of the magnitude 
of the Hertzian waves used in wireless.” 

, Five or ten minutes passed. Norton was get¬ 
ting ready to fly. I could see through my field- 
glass that he was putting something over his gy¬ 
roscope and over the dynamo, hut could not quite 
make out what it was. His machine seemed to 
leap up in the air as if eager to redeem itself. 
Norton with his white-bandaged head was the 
hero of the hour. No sooner had his aeroplane 
got up over the level of the trees than I heard a 
quick exclamation from Craig. 

“Look at the needle, Walter!” he cried. “As 
soon as Norton got into the air it shot around di¬ 
rectly opposite to the wireless station, and now it 
is pointing—” 

We raised our eyes in the direction which it in¬ 
dicated. It was precisely in line with the 
weather-beaten barn. 

I gasped. What did it mean! Did it mean in 
I some way another accident to Norton—perhaps 
'fatal this time? Why had Kennedy allowed him 
to try it to-day when there was even a suspicion 
that some nameless terror was abroad in the air? 
Quickly I turned to see if Norton was all right. 
lYes, there he was, circling above us in a series of 
wide spirals, climbing up, up. Now he seemed 


280 


THE SILENT BULLET 


almost to stop, to hover motionless. He was mo¬ 
tionless. His engine had been cut out, and I 
could see his propeller stopped. He was riding 
as a ship rides on the ocean. 

A boy ran up the ladder to the roof. Kennedy 
unfolded the note and shoved it into my hands. 
It was from the operator. 

“ Wireless out of business again. Curse that 
fellow who is butting in. Am keeping record,” 
was all it said. 

I shot a glance of inquiry at Kennedy, but he 
was paying no attention now to anything but 
Norton. He held his watch in his hand. 

“Walter,” he ejaculated as he snapped it shut, 
“it has now been seven minutes and a half since 
he stopped his propeller. The Brooks Prize calls 
for five minutes only. Norton has exceeded it 
fifty per cent. Here goes.” 

With his hat in his hand he waved three times 
and stopped. Then he repeated the process. 

At the third time the aeroplane seemed to give 
a start. The propeller began to revolve, Nor¬ 
ton starting it on the compression successfully. 
Slowly he circled down again. Toward the end' 
of the descent he stopped the engine and vol¬ 
planed, or coasted, to the ground, landing gently 
in front of his hangar. 

A wild cheer rose into the air from the crowd 
below us. All eyes were riveted on the activity 
about Norton’s biplane. They were doing some* 


THE TERROR IN THE AIR 281 

thing to it. Whatever it was, it was finished 
in a minnte and the men were standing again at a 
respectful distance from the propellers. Again 
Norton was in the air. As he rose above the field 
Kennedy gave a last glance at his ondometer and 
sprang down the ladder. I followed closely. 
Back of the crowd he hurried, down the walk to 
the entrance near the railroad station. The map. 
in charge of the Pinkertons was at the gate with 
two other men, apparently waiting. 

“Come on!” shouted Craig. 

We four followed him as fast as we could. He 
turned in at the lane running up to the yellow 
house, so as to approach the barn from the rear, 
unobserved. 

“Quietly, now,” he cautioned. 

We were now at the door of the barn. A curi¬ 
ous crackling, snapping noise issued. Craig 
gently tried the door. It was bolted on the in¬ 
side. As many of us as could threw ourselves 
like a human catapult against it. It yielded. 

Inside I saw a sheet of flame fifteen or twenty 
feet long—it was a veritable artificial bolt of 
lightning. A man with a telescope had been peer¬ 
ing out of the window, but now was facing us in 
surprise. 

“Lamar,” shouted Kennedy, drawing a pistol, 
“one motion of your hand and you are a dead 
man. Stand still—where you are. You are 
caught red-handed.” 


282 


THE SILENT BULLET 


The rest of us shrank back in momentary fear 
of the gigantic forces of nature which seemed let 
loose in the room. The thought, in my mind at 
least, was: Suppose this arch-fiend should turn his 
deadly power on us? 

Kennedy saw us from the corner of his eye. 
“Don’t be afraid,’’ he said with just a curl to his 
lip. “I’ve seen all this before. It won’t hurt 
you. It’s a high frequency current. The man 
has simply appropriated the invention of Mr. Ni¬ 
kola Tesla. Seize him. He won’t struggle. 
I’ve got him covered.” 

Two burly Pinkertons leaped forward gingerly 
into the midst of the electrical apparatus, and in 
less time than it takes to write it Lamar was 
hustled out to the doorway, each arm pinioned 
back of him. 

As we stood, half dazed by the suddenness 
of the turn of events, Kennedy hastily explained: 
“Tesla’s theory is that under certain conditions 
the atmosphere, which is normally a high insula¬ 
tor, assumes conducting properties and so be¬ 
comes capable of conveying any amount of elec¬ 
trical energy. I myself have seen electrical oscil¬ 
lations such as these in this room of such inten¬ 
sity that while they could be circulated with im¬ 
punity through one’s arms and chest they would 
melt wires farther along in the circuit. Yet the 
person through whom such a current is passing 
feels no inconvenience. I have seen a loop of 


THE TERROR IN THE AIR 283 

heavy copper wire energised by such oscillations 
and a mass of metal within the loop heated to the 
fusing point, and yet into the space in which this 
destructive aerial turmoil was going on I have re¬ 
peatedly thrust.my hand and even my head, with¬ 
out feeling anything or experiencing any injuri¬ 
ous after-effect. In this form all the energy of 
all the dynamos of Niagara could pass through 
one’s body and yet produce no injury. But, di¬ 
abolically directed, this vast energy has been 
used by this man to melt the wires in the little 
dynamo that runs Norton’s gyroscope. That is 
all. Now to the aviation field. I have something 
more to show you.” 

We hurried as fast as we could up the street 
and straight out on the field, across toward the 
Norton hangar, the crowd gaping in wonderment. 
Kennedy waved frantically for Norton to come 
down, and Norton, who was only a few hundred 
feet in the air, seemed to see and understand. 

As we stood waiting before the hangar Ken¬ 
nedy could no longer restrain his impatience. 

“I suspected some wireless-power trick when 
I found that the field wireless telegraph failed to 
work every time Norton’s aeroplane was in the 
air,” he said, approaching close to Lamar. “I 
just happened to catch sight of that peculiar wire¬ 
less mast of yours. A little flash of light first at¬ 
tracted my attention to it. I thought it was an 
electric spark, but you are too clever for that, 


284 THE SILENT BULLET 

Lamar. Still, you forgot a much simpler thing. 
It was the glint of the sun on the lens of your 
telescope as you were watching Norton that be¬ 
trayed you.” 

Lamar said nothing. 

“Pm glad to say you had no confederate in the 
hangar here,” continued Craig. “At first I 
suspected it. Anyhow, you succeeded pretty well 
single handed, two lives lost and two machines 
wrecked. Norton flew all right yesterday when 
he left his gyroscope and dynamo behind, but 
when he took them along you were able to fuse 
the wires in the dynamo—you pretty nearly suc¬ 
ceeded in adding his name to those of Browne and 
Herrick.’ ’ 

The whir of Norton’s machine told us he was 
approaching. We scattered to give him space 
enough to choose the spot where he would alight. 
As the men caught his machine to steady it, he 
jumped lightly to the ground. 

“Where’s Kennedy?” he asked, and then, with¬ 
out waiting for a reply, he exclaimed: “Queerest 
thing I ever saw up there. The dynamo wasn’t 
protected by the sheet-lead shield in this flight as 
in the first to-day. I hadn’t risen a hundred feet 
before I happened to hear the darndest sputter¬ 
ing in the dynamo. Look, boys, the insulation is 
completely burned off the wires, and the wires 
are nearly all fused together.” 

“So it was in the other two wrecked ma- 


THE TERROR IN THE AIR 285 

chines,” added Kennedy, coming coolly forward. 
“If yon hadn’t had everything protected by those 
shields I gave you in your first flight to-day you 
would have simply repeated your fall of yester¬ 
day—perhaps fatally. This fellow has been 
directing the full strength of his wireless high- 
tension electricity straight at you all the time.” 

“What fellow?” demanded Norton. 

The two Pinkertons shoved Lamar forward. 
Norton gave a contemptuous look at him. “De- 
lanne,” he said, “I knew you were a crook when 
you tried to infringe on my patent, but I didn’t 
think you were coward enough to resort to—to 
murder.” 

Lamar, or rather Delanne, shrank back as if 
even the protection of his captors was safety com¬ 
pared to the threatening advance of Norton to¬ 
ward him. 

“Pouif!” exclaimed Norton, turning suddenly 
on his heel. “What a fool I am! The law will 
take care of such scoundrels as you. What’s the 
grand stand cheering for now?” he asked, looking 
across the field in an effort to regain his self-con¬ 
trol. 

A boy from one of the hangars down the line 
spoke up from the back of the crowd in a shrill, 
piping voice. “You have been awarded the 
Brooks Prize, sir,” he said. 


X 


THE BLACK HAND 

Kennedy and I had been dining rather late one 
evening at Luigi’s, a little Italian restaurant on 
the lower West Side. We had known the place 
well in our student days, and had made a point 
of visiting it once a month since, in order to keep 
in practice in the fine art of gracefully handling 
long shreds of spaghetti. Therefore we did not 
think it strange when the proprietor himself 
stopped a moment at our table to greet us. 
Glancing furtively around at the other diners, 
mostly Italians, he suddenly leaned over and 
whispered to Kennedy: 

“I have heard of your wonderful detective 
work, Professor. Could you give a little advice 
in the case of a friend of mine?” 

“Surely, Luigi. What is the case?” asked 
Craig, leaning back in his chair. 

Luigi glanced around again apprehensively and 
lowered his voice. “Not so loud, sir. When you 
pay your check, go out, walk around Washington 
Square, and come in at the private entrance. I’ll 
be waiting in the hall. My friend is dining pri¬ 
vately upstairs.” 

286 


THE B 

We lingered a w! - ' • 

qnietly paid the check and departed. 

True to his word, Luigi was waiting for us in 
the dark hall. With a motion that indicated 
silence, he led us up the stairs to the second floor, 
and quickly opened a door into what seemed to 
be a fair-sized private dining-room. A man was 
pacing the floor nervously. On a table was some 
food, untouched. As the door opened I thought 
he started as if in fear, and I am sure his dark 
face blanched, if only for an instant. Imagine 
our surprise at seeing Gennaro, the great tenor, 
with whom merely to have a speaking acquaint¬ 
ance was to argue oneself famous. 

“Oh, it is you, Luigi,’’ he exclaimed in perfect 
English, rich and mellow. “And who are these 
gentlemen?” 

Luigi merely replied, “Friends,” in English 
also, and then dropped off into a voluble, low- 
toned explanation in Italian. 

I could see, as we waited, that the same idea 
had flashed over Kennedy’s mind as over my own. 
It was now three or four days since the papers 
had reported the strange kidnapping of Gennaro’s 
five-year-old daughter Adelina, his only child, and 
the sending of a demand for ten thousand dollars 
ransom, signed, as usual, with the mystic Black 
Hand—a name to conjure with in blackmail and 
extortion. 

As Signor Gennaro advanced toward us, after 


288 THE SILENT BULLET 

his short talk with Luigi, almost before the intro¬ 
ductions were over, Kennedy anticipated him by 
saying: “I understand, Signor, before you ask 
me. I have read all about it in the papers. You 
want someone to help you catch the criminals 
who are holding your little girl.” 

4 4 No, no!” exclaimed Gennaro excitedly. 4 4 Not 
that. I want to get my daughter first. After 
that, catch them if you can—yes, I should like to 
have someone do it. But read this first and tell 
me what you think of it. How should I act to 
get my little Adelina back without harming a 
hair of her head?” The famous singer drew 
from a capacious pocketbook a dirty, crumpled 
letter, scrawled on cheap paper. 

Kennedy translated it quickly. It read: 

Honourable sir: Your daughter is in safe hands. 
But, by the saints, if you give this letter to the police 
as you did the other, not only she but your family also, 
someone near to you, will suffer. We will not fail as 
we did Wednesday. If you want your daughter back, 
go yourself, alone and without telling a soul, to Enrico 
Albano’s Saturday night at the twelfth hour. You must 
provide yourself with $10,000 in bills hidden in Satur¬ 
day s II Progresso Italiano. In the back room you will 
see a man sitting alone at a table. He will have a red 
flower on his coat. You are to say, “A fine opera is 4 1 
Pagliacci.’ ” If he answers, 44 Not without Gennaro,” 
lay the newspaper down on the table. He will pick it up, 
leaving his own, the Bolletino. On the third page you 


THE BLACK HAND '289 

•will find written the place where yonr daughter has been 
left waiting for you. Go immediately and get her. 
But, by the God, if you have so much as the shadow of 
the police near Enrico’s your daughter will be sent to 
you in a box that night. Do not fear to come. We 
pledge our word to deal fairly if you deal fairly. This 
is a last warning. Lest you shall forget we will show 
one other sign of our power to-morrow. 

La Mano Nera. 

The end of this ominous letter was grnesomely 
decorated with a skull and cross-bones, a rough 
drawing of a dagger thrust through a bleeding 
heart, a coffin, and, under all, a huge black hand. 
There was no doubt about the type of letter that 
it was. It was such as have of late years become 
increasingly common in all our large cities, baf¬ 
fling the best detectives. 

“You have not showed this to the police, I pre¬ 
sume ?” asked Kennedy. 

“Naturally not.’’ 

“Are you going Saturday night?” 

“I am afraid to go and afraid to stay away,” 
was the reply, and the voice of the fifty-thousand- 
dollars-a-season tenor was as human as that of a 
five-dollar-a-week father, for at bottom all men, 
high or low, are one. 

“ We will not fail as we did Wednesday/ ” 
reread Craig. “What does that mean?” 

Gennaro fumbled in his pocketbook again, and 
at last drew forth a typewritten letter bearing the 


230 THE SILENT BULLET 

letter-head of the Leslie Laboratories, Incorpor¬ 
ated. 

“After I received the first threat,” explained 
Gennaro, “my wife and I went from onr apart¬ 
ments at the hotel to her father’s, the hanker 
Cesare, yon know, who lives on Fifth Avenue. I 
gave the letter to the Italian Squad of the police. 
The next morning my father-in-law’s butler 
noticed something peculiar about the milk. He 
barely touched some of it to his tongue, and he 
has been violently ill ever since. I at once sent 
the milk to the laboratory of my friend Doctor 
Leslie to have it analysed. This letter shows 
what the household escaped.” 

“My dear Gennaro,” read Kennedy. “The milk sub¬ 
mitted to us for examination on the 10th inst. has been 
carefully analysed, and I beg to hand you herewith the 
result: 

“Specific gravity 1.036 at 15 degrees Cent. 


Water .84.60 per cent. 

Casein . 3.49 “ “ 

Albumin .56 “ << 

Globulin. 1,32 “ “ 

Lactose . 5.08 “ “ 

Ash .72 “ “ 

Fat . 3,42 “ “ 

Kicin . 1,19 “ «< 


“Ricin is a new and little-known poison derived from 
the shell of the castor-oil bean. Professor Ehrlich states 
that one gram of the pure poison will kill 1,500,000 










THE BLACK HAND 291 

guinea pigs. Ricin was lately isolated by Professor 
Robert, of Rostock, but is seldom found except in an 
impure state, though still very deadly. It surpasses 
strychnin, prussic acid, and other commonly known 
drugs. I congratulate you and yours on escaping and 
shall of course respect your wishes absolutely regarding 
keeping secret this attempt on your life. Believe me, 
“Very sincerely yours, 

“C. W. Leslie.’’ 

As Kennedy banded the letter back, be 
remarked significantly: “I can see very readily; 
why yon don’t care to have the police figure in 
your case. It has got quite beyond ordinary 
police methods.” 

“And to-morrow, too, they are going to give 
another sign of their power,” groaned Gennaro, 
sinking into the chair before his untasted food. 

“You say you have left your hotel?” inquired 
Kennedy. 

“Yes. My wife insisted that we would be more 
safely guarded at the residence of her father, the 
banker. But we are afraid even there since the 
poison attempt. So I have come here secretly to 
Luigi, my old friend Luigi, who is preparing food 
for us, and in a few minutes one of Cesare’s auto¬ 
mobiles will be here, and I will take the food up 
to her—sparing no expense or trouble. She is’ 
heart-broken. It will kill her, Professor Ken¬ 
nedy, if anything happens to our little Adelina. 

“Ah, sir, I am not poor myself. A month's 


Siuary the ^cia-nuuse, mat i» vviiai iney asK 
of me. Gladly would I give it, ten thousand 
dollars—all, if they asked it, of my contract with 
Herr Schleppencour, the director. But the police 
—bah!—they are all for catching the villains. 
What good will it do me if they catch them and 
my little Adelina is returned to me dead? It is 
all very well for the Anglo-Saxon to talk of justice 
and the law, but I am—what you call, it?—an 
emotional Latin. I want my little daughter— 
and at any cost. Catch the villains afterward—• 
yes. I will pay double then to catch them so that 
they cannot blackmail me again. Only first I 
want my daughter back.” 

“And your father-in-law?” 

“My father-in-law, he has been among you long 
-enough to be one of you. He has fought them. 
He has put up a sign in his banking-house, ‘No 
money paid on threats.’ But I say it is foolish. 
I do not know America as well as he, but I know 
this: the police never succeed—the ransom is 
paid without their knowledge, and they very often 
take the credit. I say, pay first, then I will swear 
righteous vendetta—I will bring the dogs to 
ice with the money yet on them. Only show 
how, show me how.” 

First of all,” replied Kennedy, “I want you 
nswer one question, truthfully, without reser- 
3n, as to a friend. I am your friend, believe 
Is there any person, a relative or acquaint- 



being capable of extorting money from yon in this 
way? I needn’t say that that is the experience 
of the district attorney’s office in the large major¬ 
ity of cases of this so-called Black Hand.” 

“No,” replied the tenor without hesitation. 
“I know that, and I have thought about it. No, 
I can think of no one. I know you Americans 
often speak of the Black Hand as a myth coined 
originally by a newspaper writer. Perhaps it 
has no organisation. But, Professor Kennedy, 
to me it is no myth. What if the real Black Hand 
is any gang of criminals who choose to use that 
convenient name to extort money? Is it the less 
real? My daughter is gone!” 

“Exactly,” agreed Kennedy. “It is not a the¬ 
ory that confronts you. It is a hard, cold fact. I 
understand that perfectly. What is the address 
of this Albano’s?” 

Luigi mentioned a number on Mulberry Street, 
and Kennedy made a note of it. 

“It is a gambling saloon,” explained Luigi. 
“Albano is a Neapolitan, a Camorrista, one of 
my countrymen of whom I am thoroughly 
ashamed, Professor Kennedy.” 

“Do you think this Albano had anything to do 
with the letter?” 

Luigi shrugged his shoulders. 

Just then a big limousine was heard outside. 


294 THE SILENT BULLET 

Luigi picked up a huge hamper that was placed 
in a corner of the room and, followed closely by 
Signor Gennaro, hurried down to it. As the 
tenor left us he grasped our hands in each of his. 

“I have an idea in my mind,” said Craig 
simply. “I will try to think it out in detail 
to-night. Where can I find you to-morrow?” 

“Come to me at the opera-house in the after¬ 
noon, or if you want me sooner at Mr. Cesare’s 
residence. Good night, and a thousand thanks to 
you, Professor Kennedy, and to you, also, Mr. 
Jameson. I trust you absolutely because Luigi 
trusts you.” 

We sat in the little dining-room until we heard 
the door of the limousine bang shut and the car 
shoot off with the rattle of the changing gears. 

“One more question, Luigi,” said Craig as the 
door opened again. “I have never been on that 
block in Mulberry Street where this Albano’s is. 
Bo you happen to know any of the shopkeepers 
on it or near it?” 

“I have a cousin who has a drug-store on the 
corner below Albano’s, on the same side of the 
street.” 

“Good! Bo you think he would let me use his 
store for a few minutes Saturday night—of 
course without any risk to himself?” 

“I think I could arrange it.” 

“Very well. Then to-morrow, say at nine in 
the morning, I will stop here, and we will all go 


295 


THE BLACK HAND 

over to see him. Good night, Luigi, and many 
thanks for thinking of me in connection with this 
case. IVe enjoyed Signor Gennaro’s singing 
often enough at the opera to want to render him 
this service, and I’m only too glad to be able to 
be of service to all honest Italians; that is, if I 
succeed in carrying out a plan I have in mind.” 

A little before nine the following day Kennedy 
and I dropped into Luigi’s again. Kennedy was 
carrying a suit-case which he had taken over from 
his laboratory to our rooms the night before. 
Luigi was waiting for us, and without losing a 
minute we sallied forth. 

By means of the tortuous twists of streets in 
old Greenwich village we came out at last on 
Bleecker Street and began walking east amid the 
hurly-burly of races of lower New York. We 
had not quite reached Mulberry Street when our 
attention was attracted by a large crowd on one 
of the busy corners, held back by a cordon of 
police who were 'endeavouring to keep the people 
moving with that burly good nature 
six-foot Irish policeman displays towai 
foot burden-bearers of southern ar 
Europe who throng New York. 

Apparently, we saw, as we edged v 
front of the crowd, here was a builc 
whole front had literally been tor- 
wrecked. The thick plate-glass of th 
was smashed to a mass of greenish spi^. 


296 THE SILENT BULLET 

the sidewalk, while the windows of the upper 
floors and for several houses down the block in 
either street were likewise broken. Some thick 
iron bars which had formerly protected the win¬ 
dows were now bent and twisted. A huge hole 
yawned in the floor inside the doorway, and peer¬ 
ing in we could see the desks and chairs a tangled 
mass of kindling. 

“What’s the matter?’’ I inquired of an officer 
near me, displaying my reporter’s fire-line badge, 
more for its moral effect than in the hope of get¬ 
ting any real information in these days of 
enforced silence toward the press. 

“Black Hand bomb,” was the laconic reply. 

‘ 4 Whew!” I whistled. “Anyone hurt?” 

“They don’t usually kill anyone, do they?” 1 
asked the officer by way of reply to test my 
acquaintance with such things. 

“No,” I admitted. “They destroy more prop¬ 
erty than lives. But did they get anyone this 
time? This must have been a thoroughly over¬ 
loaded bomb, I should judge by the looks of 
things. ’ ’ 

“Came pretty close to it. The bank hadn’t 
more than opened when, bang! went this gas- 
'-and-dynamite thing. Crowd collected before 
^ smoke had fairly cleared. Man who owns 
the bank was hurt, but not badly. Now come, 
beat it down to headquarters if you want to find 
out any more. You’ll find it printed on the pink 


THE BLACK HAND 297 

slips—the ‘squeal book’—by this time. ’’Gainst 
the rules for me to talk,” he added with a good- 
natured grin, then to the crowd: “G’wan, now. 
You’re blockin’ traffic. Keep movin’.” 

I turned to Craig and Luigi. Their eyes were 
riveted on the big gilt sign, half broken, and all 
askew overhead. It read: 

CIJRO DI CESARE & CO. BANKERS 
NEW YORK, GENOA, NAPLES, ROME, PALERMO 

“This is the reminder so that Gennaro and his 
father-in-law will not forget,” I gasped. 

“Yes,” added Craig, pulling us away, “and 
Cesare himself is wounded, too. Perhaps that 
was for putting up the notice refusing to pay. 
Perhaps not. It’s a queer case—they usually 
set the bombs off at night when no one is around. 
There must be more back of this than merely to 
scare Gennaro. It looks to me as if they were 
after Casare, too, first by poison, then by dyna¬ 
mite.” 

We shouldered our way out through the crowd 
and went on until we came to Mulberry Street, 
pulsing with life. Down we went past the little 
shops, dodging the children, and making way for 
women with huge bundles of sweat-shop clothing 
accurately balanced on their heads or hugged up 
under their capacious capes. Here was just one 


298 THE SILENT BULLET 

little colony of the hundreds of thousands of 
Italians—a population larger than the Italian 
population of Rome—of whose life the rest of 
New York knew and cared nothing. 

At last we came to Albano’s little wine-shop, a 
dark, evil, malodorous place on the street level 
of a five-story, alleged “new-law” tenement. 
Without hesitation Kennedy entered, and we fol¬ 
lowed, acting the part of a slumming party. 
There were a few customers at this early hour, 
men out of employment and an inoffensive-look¬ 
ing lot, though of course they eyed us sharply. 
Albano himself proved to be a greasy, low-browed 
fellow who had a sort of cunning look. I could 
well imagine such a fellow spreading terror in 
the hearts of simple folk by merely pressing both 
temples with his thumbs and drawing his long 
bony fore-finger under his throat—the so-called 
Black Hand sign that has shut up many a witness 
in the middle of his testimony even in open court. 

We pushed through to the low-ceilinged back 
room, which was empty, and sat down at a table. 
Over a bottle of Albano’s famous California 
“red ink” we sat silently. Kennedy was mak¬ 
ing a mental note of the place. In the middle of 
the ceiling was a single gas-burner with a big 
reflector over it. In the back wall of the room 
was a horizontal oblong window, barred, and with 
a sash that opened like a transom. The tables 
were dirty and the chairs rickety. The walls 


299 


THE BLACK HAND 

were bare and unfinished, with beams innocent 
of decoration. Altogether it was as unpre¬ 
possessing a place as I had ever seen. 

Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, Ken¬ 
nedy got up to go, complimenting the proprietor 
on his wine. I could see that Kennedy had made 
up his mind as to his course of action. 

“How sordid crime really is,” he remarked as 
we walked on down the street. “Look at that 
place of Albano’s. I defy even the police news 
reporter on the Star to find any glamour in that.” 

Our next stop was at the corner at the little 
store kept by the cousin of Luigi, who conducted 
us back of the partition where prescriptions were 
compounded, and found us chairs. 

A hurried explanation from Luigi brought a 
cloud to the open face of the druggist, as if he 
hesitated to lay himself and his little fortune open 
to the blackmailers. Kennedy saw it and inter¬ 
rupted. 

“All that I wish to do,” he said, “is to put in a 
little instrument here and use it to-night for a few 
minutes. Indeed, there will be no risk to you, 
Vincenzo. Secrecy is what I desire, and no one 
will ever know about it.” 

Vincenzo was at length convinced, and Craig 
opened his suit-case. There was little in it except 
several coils of insulated wire, some tools, a 
couple of packages wrapped up, and a couple 
of pairs of overalls. In a moment Kennedy 


LET 

smearing dirt 

s - . ids. Under his 

direction I did the same. 

Taking the bag of tools, the wire, and one of 
the small packages, we went out on the street and 
then up through the dark and ill-ventilated hall 
of the tenement. Half-way; up a woman stopped 
us suspiciously. 

“Telephone company,” said Craig curtly. 
“Here’s permission from the owner of the house 
to string wires across the roof.” 

He pulled an old letter out of his pocket, hut 
as it was too dark to read even if the woman had 
cared to do so, we went on up as he had expected, 
unmolested. At last we came to the roof, where 
there were some children at play a couple of 
houses down from us. 

Kennedy began by dropping two strands of 
wire down to the ground in the back yard behind 
Vincenzo’s shop. Then he proceeded to lay two 
wires along the edge of the roof. 

We had worked only a little while when the 
children began to collect. However, Kennedy 
kept right on until we reached the tenement next 
to that in which Albano’s shop was. 

“Walter,” he whispered, “just get the children 
away for a minute now.” 

“Look here, you kids,” I yelled, “some of you 
will fall off if you get so close to the edge of the 
roof. Keep back.” 


301 


THE BLACK HAND 

It had no effect. Apparently they looked not 
a hit frightened at the dizzy mass of clothes-lines 
below ns, 

“Say, is there a candy-store on this block?” I 
asked in desperation. 

“Yes, sir,” came the chorus. 

“Who’ll go down and get me a bottle of gin¬ 
ger ale?” I asked. 

A chorus of voices and glittering eyes was the 
answer. They all would. I took a half-dollar 
from my pocket and gave it to the oldest. 

“All right now, hustle along, and divide the! 
change.” 

With the scamper of many feet they were gone, 
and we were alone. Kennedy had now reached 
Albano’s, and as soon as the last head had disap¬ 
peared below the scuttle of the roof he dropped 
two long strands down into the back yard, as he 
had done at Vincenzo’s. 

I started to go back, but he stopped me. 

“Oh, that will never do,” he said. “The kids 
will see that the wires end here. I must carry 
them on several houses farther as a blind and 
trust to luck that they don’t see the wires leading 
down below.” 

We were several houses down, still putting up 
wires when the crowd came shouting back, sticky 
with cheap trust-made candy and black with East 
Side chocolate. We opened the ginger ale and 
forced ourselves to drink it so as to excite no sus- 


302 THE SILENT BULLET 

picion, then a few minutes later descended the 
stairs of the tenement, coming out just above 
Albano’s. 

I was wondering how Kennedy was going to 
get into Albano’s again without exciting sus¬ 
picion. He solved it neatly. 

“Now, Walter, do you think you could stand 
another dip into that red ink of Albano’s?” 

I said I might in the interests of science and 
justice—not otherwise. 

“Well, your face is sufficiently dirty,’’ he com¬ 
mented, “so that with the overalls you don’t look 
very much as you did the first time you went in. 
I don’t think they will recognise you. Do I look 
pretty good?” 

“You look like a coal-heaver out of a job,” I 
said. “I can scarcely restrain my admiration.” 

“All right. Then take this little glass bottle. 
Go into the back room and order something cheap, 
in keeping with your looks. Then when you are 
all alone break the bottle. It is full of gas drip¬ 
pings. Your nose will dictate what to do next. 
Just tell the proprietor you saw the gas com¬ 
pany’s wagon on the next block and come up 
here and tell me.” 

I entered. There was a sinister-looking man, 
with a sort of unscrupulous intelligence, writing 
at a table. As he wrote and puffed at his cigar, 
I noticed a scar on his face, a deep furrow run¬ 
ning from the lobe of his ear to his mouth. That, 


-4 


THE BLACK HAND 


303 


I knew, was a brand set upon him by the Camorra. 
I sat and smoked and sipped slowly for several 
minutes, cursing him inwardly more for his pres¬ 
ence than for his evident look of the “mala vita.” 
At last he went out to ask the barkeeper for a 
stamp. 

Quickly I tiptoed over to another corner of the 
room and ground the little bottle under my heel. 
Then I resumed my seat. The odour that per¬ 
vaded the room was sickening. 

The sinister-looking man with the scar came 
in again and sniffed. I sniffed. Then the pro¬ 
prietor came in and sniffed. 

“Say,” I said in the toughest voice I could 
assume, “you got a leak. Wait. I seen the gas 
company wagon on the next block when I came 
in. I’ll get the man.” 

I dashed out and hurried up the street to the 
place where Kennedy was waiting impatiently. 
Battling his tools, he followed me with apparent 
reluctance. 

As he entered the wine-shop he snorted, after 
the manner of gas-men, “Where’s de leak?” 

“You find-a da leak,” grunted Albano. 
“What-a you get-a you pay for? You want-a me 
do your work?” 

“Well, half a dozen o’ you wops get out o’ 
here, that’s all. D’youse all wanter be blown ter 
pieces wid dem pipes and cigarettes? Clear 
out,” growled Kennedy. 


304 THE SILWN BULLET 

They re x v :ely, and Craig hastily 

opened his bag of tools. 

“Quick, Walter, shut the door and hold it,” 
exclaimed Craig, working rapidly. He unwrap¬ 
ped a little package and took out a round, flat 
disc-like thing of black vulcanised rubber. Jump¬ 
ing up on a table, he fixed it to the top of the 
reflector over the gas-jet. 

“Can you see that from the floor, Walter?” he 
asked under his breath. 

“No,” I replied, “not even when I know it is 
there. ’’ 

Then he attached a couple of wires to it and 
led them across the ceiling toward the window, 
concealing them carefully by sticking them in the 
shadow of a beam. At the window he quickly 
attached the wires to the two that were dangling 
down from the roof and shoved them around out 
of sight. 

“We’ll have to trust that no one sees them,” 
he said. “That’s the best I can do at such short 
notice. I never saw a room so bare as this, any¬ 
way. There isn’t another place I could put that 
thing without its being seen.” 

We gathered up the broken glass of the gas- 
drippings bottle, and I opened the door. 

“It’s all right, now,” said Craig, sauntering 
out before the bar. “Only de next time you has 
anyt’ing de matter call de company up. I ain’t 
supposed to do dis wit’out orders, see?” 


THE BLACK HAND 305 

A moment later I followed, glad to get out of 
the oppressive atmosphere, and joined him in the 
hack of Vincenzo’s drug-store, where he was 
again at work. As there was no back window 
there, it was quite a job to lead the wires around 
the outside from the back yard and in at a side 
window. It was at last done, however, without 
exciting suspicion, and Kennedy attached them to 
an oblong box of weathered oak and a pair of 
specially constructed dry batteries. 

“Now,” said Craig, as we washed off the stains 
of work and stowed the overalls back in the suit¬ 
case, “that is done to my satisfaction. I can tell 
Gennaro to go ahead safely now and meet the 
Black-Handers.” 

From Vincenzo’s we walked over toward Cen¬ 
tre Street, where Kennedy and I left Luigi to 
return to his restaurant, with instructions to be 
at Vincenzo’s at half-past eleven that night. 

We turned into the new police headquarters 
and went down the long corridor to the Italian 
Bureau. Kennedy sent in his card to Lieutenant 
Giuseppe in charge, and we were quickly admit¬ 
ted. The lieutenant was a short, full-faced, 
fleshy Italian, with lightish hair and eyes that 
were apparently dull, until you suddenly dis¬ 
covered that that was merely a cover to their 
really restless way of taking in everything and 
fixing the impressions on his mind, as if on a sen¬ 
sitive plate. 


306 THE SILENT BULLET 

“I want to talk about the Gennaro case,” began 
Craig. “I may add that I have been rather 
closely associated with Inspector O’Connor of the 
Central Office on a number of cases, so that I think 
we can trust each other. Would you mind telling 
me what you know about it if I promise you that 
I, too, have something to reveal?” 

The lieutenant leaned back and watched Ken¬ 
nedy closely without seeming to do so. “When 
I was in Italy last year,” he replied at length, “I 
did a good deal of work in tracing up some 
Camorra suspects. I had a tip about some of 
them to look up their records—I needn’t say 
where it came from, but it was a good one. Much 
of the evidence against some of those fellows who 
are being tried at Viterbo was gathered by the 
Carabinieri as a result of hints that I was able 
to give them—clues that were furnished to me 
here in America from the source I speak of. I 
suppose there is really no need to conceal it, 
though. The original tip came from a certain 
banker here in New York.” 

“I can guess who it was,” nodded Craig. 

“Then, as you know, this banker is a fighter. 
He is the man who organised the White Hand— 
an organisation which is trying to rid the Italian 
population of the Black Hand. His society had 1 
a lot of evidence regarding former members of 
both the Camorra in Naples and the Mafia in 
Sicily, as well as the Black Hand gangs in New: 


THE BLACK HAND 307 

York, Chicago, and other cities. Well, Cesare, 
as yon know, is Gennaro’s father-in-law. 

‘‘ While I was in Naples looking up the record 
of a certain criminal I heard of a peculiar murder 
committed some years ago. There was an honest 
old music master who apparently lived the quiet¬ 
est and most harmless of lives. But it became 
known that he was supported by Cesare and had 
received handsome presents of money from him. 
The old man was, as you may have guessed, the 
first music teacher of Gennaro, the man who dis¬ 
covered him. One might have been at a loss to 
see how he could have an enemy, but there was 
one who coveted his small fortune. One day he 
was stabbed and robbed. His murderer ran out 
into the street, crying out that the poor man had 
been killed. Naturally a crowd rushed up in a 
moment, for it was in the middle of the day. 
Before the injured man could make it understood 
who had struck him the assassin was down the 
street and lost in the maze of old Naples where 
he well knew the houses of his friends who would 
hide him. The man who is known to have com¬ 
mitted that crime—Francesco Paoli—escaped to 
New York. We are looking for him to-day. He 
is a clever man, far above the average—son of a 
doctor in a town a few miles from Naples, went 
to the university, was expelled for some mad 
prank—in short, he was the black sheep of the 
family. Of course over here he is too high-born 


308 THE SILENT BULLET 

to work with his hands on a railroad or in a 
trench, and not educated enough to work at any¬ 
thing else. So he has been preying on his more 
industrious countrymen—a typical case of a man 
living by his wits with no visible means of sup¬ 
port. 

“Now I don’t mind telling you in strict confi¬ 
dence,” continued the lieutenant, “that it’s my 
theory that old Cesare has seen Paoli here, knew 
he was wanted for that murder of the old music 
master, and gave me the tip to look up his record. 
At any rate Paoli disappeared right after I 
returned from Italy, and we haven’t been able to 
locate him since. He must have found out in some 
way that the tip to look him up had been given 
by the White Hand. He had been a Camorrista, 
in Italy, and had many ways of getting informa¬ 
tion here in America.” 

He paused, and balanced a piece of cardboard 
in his hand. 

“It is my theory of this case that if we could 
locate this Paoli we could solve the kidnapping of 
little Adelina Gennaro very quickly. That’s his 
picture.” 

Kennedy and I bent over to look at it, and I 
started in surprise. It was my evil-looking friend 
with the scar on his cheek. 

“Well,” said Craig, quietly handing back the 
card, “whether or not he is the man, I know where 
we can catch the kidnappers to-night, Lieutenant.” 


309 


THE BLACK HAND 

It was Giuseppe’s turn to show surprise now. 

“With your assistance I’ll get this man and the 
whole gang to-night,” explained Craig, rapidly 
sketching over his plan and concealing just 
enough to make sure that no matter how anxious 
the lieutenant was to get the credit he could not 
spoil the affair by premature interference. 

The final arrangement was that four of the best 
men of the squad were to hide in a vacant store 
across from Vincenzo’s early in the evening, long 
before anyone was watching. The signal for 
them to appear was to be the extinguishing of the 
lights behind the coloured bottles in the druggist’s 
window. A taxicab was to be kept waiting at 
headquarters at the same time with three other 
good men ready to start for a "given address the 
moment the alarm was given over the telephone. 

We found Gennaro awaiting us with the great¬ 
est anxiety at the opera-house. The bomb at 
Cesare’s had been the last straw. Gennaro had 
already drawn from his bank ten crisp one- 
thousand-dollar bills, and already had a copy 
of II Progresso in which he had hidden the money 
between the sheets. 

“Mr. Kennedy,” he said, “I am going to meet 
them to-night. They may kill me. See, I have 
provided myself with a pistol—I shall fight, too, 
if necessary for my little Adelina. But if it is 
only money they want, they shall have it.” 

“One thing I want to say,” began Kennedy. 


310 THE SILENT BULLET 

“No, no, no!” cried the tenor. “I will go — 
yon shall not stop me.” 

“I don’t wish to stop yon,” Craig reassured 
him. “But one thing—do exactly as I tell yon, 
and I swear not a hair of the child’s head will be 
injured and we will get the blackmailers, too.” 

“How?” eagerly asked Gennaro. “What do 
yon want me to do?” 

“All I want you to do is to go to Albano’s at 
the appointed time. Sit down in the back room. 
Get into conversation with them, and, above all, 
Signor, as soon as yon get the copy of the 
Bolletino turn to the third page, pretend not to be 
able to read the address. Ask the man to read it. 
Then repeat it after him. Pretend to be over¬ 
joyed. Offer to set up wine for the whole crowd. 
Just a few minutes, that is all I ask, and I will 
guarantee that you will be the happiest man in 
New York to-morrow.” 

Gennaro’s eyes tilled with tears as he grasped 
Kennedy’s hand. ‘‘ That is better than having the 
whole police force back of me,” he said. “I shall 
never forget, never forget.” 

As we went out Kennedy remarked: “You can’t 
blame them for keeping their troubles to them¬ 
selves. Here we send a police officer over to 
Italy to look up the records of some of the worst 
suspects. He loses his life. Another takes his 
place. Then after he gets back he is set to work 
on the mere clerical routine of translating them. 


THE BLACK HAND 311 

One of his associates is reduced in rank. And so 
what does it come to ? Hundreds of records have 
become useless because the three years within 
which the criminals could be deported have 
elapsed with nothing done. Intelligent, isn’t it? 
I believe it has been established that all but about 
fifty of seven hundred known Italian suspects are 
still at large, mostly in this city. And the rest of 
the Italian population is guarded from them by a 
squad of police in number scarcely one-thirtieth 
of the number of known criminals. No, it’s our 
fault if the Black Hand thrives.” 

We had been standing on the corner of Broad¬ 
way, waiting for a car. 

“Now, Walter, don’t forget. Meet me at the 
Bleecker Street station of the subway at eleven- 
thirty. I’m off to the university. I have some 
very important experiments with phosphorescent 
salts that I want to finish to-day.” 

“What has that to do with the case?” I asked 
mystified. 

“Nothing,” replied Craig. “I didn’t say it 
had. At eleven-thirty, don’t forget. By George, 
though, that Paoli must be a clever one—think of 
his knowing about ricin. I only heard of it my¬ 
self recently. Well, here’s my car. Good-bye.” 

Craig swung aboard an Amsterdam Avenue car, 
leaving me to kill eight nervous hours of my 
weekly day of rest from the Star. 

They passed at length, and at precisely the 


312 


THE SILENT BULLET 


appointed time Kennedy and I met. With sup¬ 
pressed excitement, at least on my part, we walked 
over to Vincenzo’s. At night this section of the 
city was indeed a black enigma. The lights in the 
shops where olive oil, fruit, and other things were 
sold, were winking out one by one; here and there 
strains of music floated out of wine-shops, and 
little groups lingered on corners conversing in 
animated sentences. We passed Albano’s on the 
other side of the street, being careful not to look 
at it too closely, for several men were hanging idly 
about—pickets, apparently, with some secret code 
that would instantly have spread far and wide 
the news of any alarming action. 

At the corner we crossed and looked in Vin¬ 
cenzo’s window a moment, casting a furtive glance* 
across the street at the dark empty store where 
the police must be hiding. Then we went in and 
casually sauntered back of the partition. Luigi 
was there already. There were several customers 
still in the store, however, and therefore we had 
to sit in silence while Vincenzo quickly finished a 
prescription and waited on the last one. 

At last the doors were locked and the lights 
lowered, all except those in the windows which 
were to serve as signals. 

“Ten minutes to twelve,” said Kennedy, plac¬ 
ing the oblong box on the table. “Gennaro will 
be going in soon. Let us try this machine now 
and see if it works. If the wires have been cut 


THE BLACK HAND 313 

since we put them np this morning Gennaro will 
have to take his chances alone.’’ 

Kennedy reached over and with a light move¬ 
ment of his forefinger touched a switch. 

Instantly a babel of voices filled the store, all 
talking at once, rapidly and loudly. Here and 
there we could distinguish a snatch of conversa¬ 
tion, a word, a phrase, now and then even a whole 
sentence above the rest. There was the clink of 
glasses. I could hear the rattle of dice on a bare 
table, and an oath. A cork popped. Somebody 
scratched a match. 

We sat bewildered, looking at Kennedy for an 
explanation. 

“Imagine that you are sitting at a table in 
Albano’s back room,” was all he said. “This is 
what you would be hearing. This is my 4 electric 
ear’—in other, words the dictograph, used, I am 
told, by the Secret Service of the United States. 
Wait, in a moment you will hear Gennaro come 
in. Luigi and Vincenzo, translate what you hear. 
iMy knowledge of Italian is pretty rusty.” 

“Can they hear us?” whispered Luigi in an 
awe-struck whisper. 

Craig laughed. “No, not yet. But I have only 
to touch this other switch, and I could produce an 
effect in that room that would rival the famous 
writing on Belshazzar’s wall—only it would be a 
voice from the wall instead of writing.” 

“They seem to be waiting for someone,” said 


314 


THE SILENT BULLET 

Vincenzo. “I heard somebody say: 4 He will be 
here in a few minutes. Now get out.’ ” 

The babel of voices seemed to calm down as men 
withdrew from the room. Only one or two were 
left. 

‘‘ One of them says the child is all right. She 
has been left in the back yard,” translated Luigi. 

“What yard? Bid he say?” asked Kennedy. 

“No; they just speak of it as the ‘yard/ ” re¬ 
plied Luigi. 

“Jameson, go outside in the store to the tele¬ 
phone booth and call up headquarters. Ask them 
if the automobile is ready, with the men in it.” 

I rang up, and after a moment the police central 
answered that everything was right. 

“Then tell central to hold the line clear—we 
mustn’t lose a moment. Jameson, you stay in the 
booth. Vincenzo, you pretend to be working 
around your window, but not in such a way as to 
attract attention, for they have men watching the 
street very carefully. What is it, Luigi?” 

“Gennaro is coming. I just heard one of them 
say, ‘Here he comes.’ ” 

Even from the booth I could hear the dicto¬ 
graph repeating the conversation in the dingy 
little back room of Albano’s, down the street. 

“He’s ordering a bottle of red wine,” mur¬ 
mured Luigi, dancing up and down with excite¬ 
ment. 

Vincenzo was so nervous that he knocked a 


THE BLACK HAND 315 

bottle down in the window, and I believe that my 
heart-beats were almost audible over the tele¬ 
phone which I was holding, for the police operator 
called me down for asking so many times if all 
was ready. 

“There it is—the signal,’’ cried Craig. “ ‘A 
fine opera is “I Pagliacci.” ’ Now listen for the 
answer.” 

A moment elapsed, then, “Not without Gen- 
naro,” came a gruff voice in Italian from the 
dictograph. 

A silence ensued. It was tense. 

“Wait, wait,” said a voice which I recognised 
instantly as Gennaro’s. “I cannot read this. 
What is this, 23% Prince Street?” 

“No, 33%. She has been left in the back yard,” 
answered the voice. 

“Jameson,” called Craig, “tell them to drive 
straight to 33% Prince Street. They will find the 
girl in the back yard—quick, before the Black- 
Handers have a chance to go back on their word.” 

I fairly shouted my orders to the police head¬ 
quarters. “They’re off,” came back the answer, 
and I hung up the receiver. 

“What was that?” Craig was asking of Luigi. 
“I didn’t catch it. What did they say?” 

“That other voice said to Gennaro, 4 Sit down 
while I count this.’ ” 

“Sh! he’s talking again.” 

“If it is a penny less than ten thousand or I 


316 


THE SILENT BULLET 


find a mark on the bills I’ll call to Enrico, and 
your daughter will be spirited away again ,’ 9 
translated Luigi. 

‘‘Now, Gennaro is talking , 9 9 said Craig. ‘‘ Good 
—he is gaining time. He is a trump. I can dis¬ 
tinguish that all right. He’s asking the gruff¬ 
voiced fellow if he will have another bottle of 
wine. He says he will. Good. They must be at 
Prince Street now—we’ll give them a few minutes 
more, not too much, for word will be back to 
Albano’s like wildfire, and they will get Gennaro 
after all. Ah, they are drinking again. What 
was that, Luigi? The money is all right, he says? 
Now, Vincenzo, out with the lights!” 

A door banged open across the street, and four 
huge dark figures darted out in the direction of 
Albano’s. 

With his finger Kennedy pulled down the other 
switch and shouted: “Gennaro, this is Kennedy! 
To the street! Polizia! Polizia!” 

A scuffle and a cry of surprise followed. A 
second voice, apparently from the bar, shouted, 
“Out with the lights, out with the lights!” 

Bang! went a pistol, and another. 

The dictograph, which had been all sound a 
moment before, was as mute as a cigar-box. 

“What’s the matter?” I asked Kennedy, as he 
rushed past me. 

“They have shot out the lights. My receiving 
instrument is destroyed. Come on, Jameson; 


THE BLACK HAND 317 

Vincenzo, stay back, if you don’t want to appear 
in this.” 

A short figure rushed by me, faster even than 
I could go. It was the faithful Luigi. 

In front of Albano’s an exciting fight was going 
on. Shots were being fired wildly in the dark¬ 
ness, and heads were popping out of tenement 
windows on all sides. As Kennedy and I flung 
ourselves into the crowd we caught a glimpse of 
Gennaro, with blood streaming from a cut on his 
shoulder, struggling with a policeman while Luigi 
vainly was trying to interpose himself between 
them. A man, held by another policeman, was 
urging the first officer on. “That’s the man,” he 
was crying. “That’s the kidnapper. I caught 
him.” 

In a moment Kennedy was behind him. “Pa- 
oli, you lie. You are the kidnapper. Seize him—- 
he has the money on him. That other is Gem 
naro himself.” 

The policeman released the tenor, and both of 
them seized Paoli. The others were beating at 
the door, which was being frantically barricaded 
inside. 

Just then a taxicab came swinging up the 
street. Three men jumped out and added their 
strength to those who were battering down Al¬ 
bano’s barricade. 

Gennaro, with a cry, leaped into the taxicab. 
Over his shoulder I could see a tangled mass of 


318 THE SILENT BULLET 

dark brown curls, and a childish voice lisped: 
“Why didn’t you come for me, papa! The bad 
man told me if I waited in the yard you would 
come for me. But if I cried he said he would 
shoot me. And I waited, and waited — 99 
“There, there, ’Lina; papa’s going to take yon 
straight home to mother.” 

A crash followed as the door yielded, and the 
famous Paoli gang was in the hands of the law. 


XI 


THE ARTIFICIAL PARADISE 

It was, I recall, at that period of the late un¬ 
pleasantness in the little Central American re- 
public of Yespuccia, when things looked darkest 
for American investors, that I hurried home one 
evening to Kennedy, bursting with news. 

By way of explanation, I may add that during 
the rubber boom Kennedy had invested in stock 
of a rubber company in Vespuccia, and that its 
value had been shrinking for some time with that 
elasticity which a rubber band shows when one 
party suddenly lets go his end. Kennedy had 
been in danger of being snapped rather hard by 
the recoil, and I knew he had put in an order with 
his broker to sell and take his loss when a certain 
figure was reached. My news was a first ray of 
light in an otherwise dark situation, and I wanted 
to advise him to cancel the selling order and stick 
for a rise. 

Accordingly I hurried unceremoniously into 
our apartment with the words on my lips before 
I had fairly closed the door. “What do you 
think, Craig V 9 I shouted. “It is rumoured that 
the revolutionists have captured half a million 

S19 


320 


THE SILENT BULLET 


dollars from the government and are sending if 
to—” I stopped short. I had no idea that 
Kennedy had a client, and a girl, too. 

With a hastily mumbled apology I checked my¬ 
self and backed out toward my own room. I may 
as well confess that I did not retreat very fast, 
however. Kennedy’s client was not only a 
girl, hut a very pretty one, I found, as she 
turned her head quickly at my sudden entrance 
and betrayed a lively interest at the mention of 
the revolution. She was a Latin-American, and 
the Latin-American type of feminine beauty is 
fascinating—at least to me. I did not retreat 
very fast. 

As I hoped, Kennedy rose to the occasion. 
“Miss Guerrero,” he said, “let me introduce Mr. 
Jameson, who has helped me very much in solv¬ 
ing some of my most difficult cases. Miss Guer¬ 
rero’s father, Walter, is the owner of a planta¬ 
tion which sells its product to the company I am 
interested in.” 

She bowed graciously, but there was a moment 
of embarrassment until Kennedy came to the res¬ 
cue. 

“I shall need Mr. Jameson in handling your 
case, Miss Guerrero,” he explained. “Would it 
be presuming to ask you to repeat to him briefly 
what you have already told me about the mysteri¬ 
ous disappearance of your father? Perhaps 
some additional details will occur to you, things 


THE ARTIFICIAL PARADISE 321 

that you may consider trivial, but which, I assure 
you, may be of the utmost importance.” 

She assented, and in a low, tremulous, musical 
voice bravely went through her story. 

“We come,” she began, “my father and I— 
for my mother died when I was a little girl—we 
come from the northern part of Vespuccia, where 
foreign capitalists are much interested in the in¬ 
troduction of 'a new rubber plant. I am an only 
child and have been the constant companion of 
my father for years, ever since I could ride a 
pony, going with him about our hacienda and on 
business trips to Europe and the States. 

“I may as well say at the start, Mr. Jameson, 
that although my father is a large land-owner, 
he has very liberal political views and is deeply 
in sympathy with the revolution that is now 
going on in Vespuccia. In fact, we were forced 
to flee very early in the trouble, and as there 
seemed to be more need of his services here in 
New York than in any of the neighbouring coun¬ 
tries, we came here. So you see that if the rev¬ 
olution is not successful his estate will probably 
be confiscated and we shall be penniless. He is 
the agent—the head of the junta, I suppose you 
would call it—here in New York.” 

“Engaged in purchasing arms and ammuni¬ 
tion,” put in Kennedy, as she paused, “and see¬ 
ing that they are shipped safely to New Orleans: 
as ‘agricultural machinery,’ where another agent 


322 THE SILENT BULLET 

receives them and attends to their safe transit 
across the Gulf.” 

She nodded and after a moment resumed: 
“ There is quite a little colony of Vespuccians 
here in New York, both revolutionists and gov¬ 
ernment supporters. I suppose that neither of 
you has any idea of the intriguing that is going 
on under the peaceful surface right here in your 
own city. But there is much of it, more than 
even I know or can tell you. Well, my father 
lately has been acting very queerly. There is a 
group who meet frequently at the home of a Se¬ 
hora Mendez—an insurrecto group, of course. I 
do not go, for they are all much older people than 
I. I know the sehora well, but I—I prefer a dif¬ 
ferent kind of person. My friends are younger 
and perhaps more radical, more in earnest about 
the future of Vespuccia. 

“For some weeks it has seemed to me that this 
Sehora Mendez has had too much influence over 
my father. He does not seem like the same man 
he used to be. Indeed, some of the junta who do 
not frequent the house of the sehora have re¬ 
marked it. He seems moody, works by starts, 
then will neglect his work entirely. Often I see 
him with his eyes closed, apparently sitting 
quietly, oblivious to the progress of the cause— 
the only cause now which can restore us our es¬ 
tate. 

“The other day we lost an entire shipment of 


THE ARTIFICIAL PARADISE 323 


arms—the Secret Service captured them on the 
way from the warehouse on South Street to the 
steamer which was to take them to New Orleans. 
Only once before had it happened, when my 
father did not understand all the things to con¬ 
ceal. Then he was frantic for a week. But this 
time he seems not to care. Ah, senores,” she 
said, dropping her voice, “I fear there was some 
treachery there.” 

“Treachery?” I asked. “And have you any 
suspicions who might have played informer?” 

She hesitated. “I may as well tell you just 
what I suspect. I fear that the hold of Sehora 
Mendez is somehow or other concerned with it 
all. I even have suspected that somehow she 
may be working in the pay of the government— 
that she is a vampire, living on the secrets of the 
group who so trust her. I suspect anything, 
everybody—that she is poisoning his mind, per¬ 
haps even whispering into his ear some siren 
proposal of amnesty and his estate again, if he 
will but do what she asks. My poor father—I 
must save him from himself if it is necessary. 
Argument has no effect with him. He merely 
answers that the senora is a talented and accom¬ 
plished woman, and laughs a vacant laugh when 
I hint to him to beware. I hate her.” 

The fiery animosity of her dark eyes boded ill, 
I felt, for the senora. But it flashed over me 
that perhaps, after all, the senora was not a 


324 THE SILENT BULLET 

traitress, but bad simply been scheming to win 
the heart and hence the hacienda of the great 
land-owner, when he came into possession of his 
estate if the revolution proved successful. 

“And finally,” she concluded, keeping back 
the tears by an heroic effort, “last night he left 
our apartment, promising to return early in the 
evening. It is now twenty-four hours, and I have 
heard not a word from him. It is the first time 
in my life that we have ever been separated so 
long.’ ’ 

“And you have no idea where he could have 
gone?” asked Craig. 

“Only what I have learned from Senor Tor- 
reon, another member of the junta. Senor Tor- 
reon said this morning that he left the home of 
Sehora Mendez last night about ten o’clock in 
company with my father. He says they parted 
at the subway, as they lived on different oranches 
of the road. Professor Kennedy,” she added, 
springing up and clasping her hands tightly in an 
appeal that was irrestible, “you know what steps 
to take to find him. I trust all to you—even the 
calling on the police, though I think it would be 
best if we could get along without them. Find 
my father, senores, and when we come into our 
own again you shall not regret that you be¬ 
friended a lonely girl in a strange city, sur¬ 
rounded by intrigue and danger.” There were 
tears in her eyes as she stood swaying before us. 


THE ARTIFICIAL PARADISE 325 


The tenseness of the appeal was broken by the 
sharp ringing of the telephone bell. Kennedy 
quickly took down the receiver. 

“Your maid wishes to speak to you,” he said, 
handing the telephone to her. 

Her face brightened with that nervous hope 
that springs .in the human breast even in the 
blackest moments. “I told her if any message 
came for me she might find me here,” explained 
Miss Guerrero. “Yes, Juanita, what is it—a 
message for me?” 

My Spanish was not quite good enough to 
catch more than a word here and there in the low 
conversation, but I could guess from the haggard 
look which overspread her delicate face that the 
news was not encouraging. 

“Oh!” she cried, “this is terrible—terrible! 
What shall I do? Why did I come here? I don’t 
believe it. I don’t believe it.” 

“Don’t believe what, Miss Guerrero?” asked 
Kennedy reassuringly. “Trust me.” 

* ‘ That he stole the money—oh, what am I say¬ 
ing? You must not look for him—you must for¬ 
get that I have been here. No, I don’t believe 
it.” 

“What money?” asked Kennedy, disregarding 
her appeal to drop the case. “Remember, it may 
be better that we should know it now than the 
police later. We will respect your confidence.” 

“The junta had been notified a few days ago, 


326 THE SILENT BULLET 

they say, that a large sum—five hundred thou¬ 
sand silver dollars—had been captured from the 
government and was on its way to New York to 
be melted up as bullion at the sub-treasury,” she 
answered, repeating what she had heard over the 
telephone as if in a dream. “Mr. Jameson re¬ 
ferred to the rumour when he came in. I was 
interested, for I did not know the public had 
heard of it yet. The junta has just announced 
that the money is missing. As soon as the ship 
docked in Brooklyn this morning an agent ap¬ 
peared with the proper credentials from my 
father and a guard, and they took the money 
away. It has not been heard of since—and they 
have no word from my father.” 

Her face w$s blanched as she realised what the 
situation was. Here she was, setting people to 
run down her own father, if the suspicions of the 
other members of the junta were to be credited. 

“You—you do not think my father—stole the 
money?” she faltered pitifully. “Say you do 
not think so.” 

“I think nothing yet,” replied Kennedy in an 
even voice. “The first thing to do is to find him 
—before the detectives of the junta do so.” 

I felt a tinge—I must confess it—of jealousy 
as Kennedy stood beside her, clasping her hand 
in both of his and gazing earnestly down into the 
rich flush that now spread over her olive cheeks. 

“Miss Guerrero,” he said, “you may trust me 


THE ARTIFICIAL PARADISE 327 

implicitly. If your father is alive I will do all 
that a man can do to find him. Let me act—for 
the best. And,” he added, wheeling quickly to¬ 
ward me, “I know Mr. Jameson will do like¬ 
wise. 19 

I was pulled two ways at once. I believed in 
Miss Guerrero, and yet the flight of her father 
and the removal of the bullion—swallowed up, 
as it were, instantly, without so much as a trace 
in New York—looked very black for him. And 
yet, as she placed her small hand tremblingly in 
mine to say good-bye, she won another knight to 
go forth and fight her battle for her, nor do I 
think that I am more than ordinarily susceptible, 
either. 

When she had gone, I looked hopelessly at Ken¬ 
nedy. How could we find a missing man in a 
city of four million people, find him without the 
aid of the police—perhaps before the police could 
themselves find him? 

Kennedy seemed to appreciate my perplexity 
as though he read my thoughts. “The first 
thing to do is to locate this Senor Torreon from 
whom the first information came,” he remarked 
as we left the apartment. “Miss Guerrero told 
me that he might possibly be found in an obscure 
boarding-house in the Bronx where several 
members of the junta live. Let ns try, any¬ 
way. ’ ’ 

Fortune favoured us to the extent that we did 


328 


THE SILENT BULLET 

find Torreon at the address given. He made no 
effort to evade ns, thongh I noted that he was an 
unprepossessing-looking man—undersized and a 
trifle over-stout, with an eye that never met yours 
as you talked with him. Whether it was that he 
was concealing something, or whether he was 
merely fearful that we might after all be United 
States Secret Service men, or whether it was 
simply a lack of command of English, he was un¬ 
commonly uncommunicative at first. He re¬ 
peated sullenly the details of the disappear¬ 
ance of Guerrero, just as we had already heard 
them. 

“And you simply bade him good-bye as you 
got on a subway train and that is the last you 
ever saw of him?” repeated Kennedy. 

“Yes,” he replied. 

“Did he seem to be worried, to have anything 
on his mind, to act queerly in any way?” asked 
Kennedy keenly. 

“No,” came the monosyllabic reply, and there 
was just that shade of hesitation about it that 
made me wish we had the apparatus we used in 
the Bond case for registering association time. 
Kennedy noticed it, and purposely dropped the 
line of inquiry in order not to excite Torreon’s 
suspicion. 

“I understand no word has been received from 
him at the headquarters on South Street to-day,” 
queried Kennedy. 


THE ARTIFICIAL PARADISE 329 


“None,” replied Torreon sharply. 

“And you have no idea where he could have 
gone after you left him last night ?” 

“No, senor, none.” 

This answer was given, I thought, with suspi¬ 
cious quickness. 

“You do not think that he could he concealed 
by Senora Mendez, then?” asked Kennedy 
quietly. 

The little man jumped forward with his eyes 
flashing. “No,” he hissed, checking this show 
of feeling as quickly as he could. 

“Well, then,” observed Kennedy, rising slowly, 
“I see nothing to do but to notify the police and 
have a general alarm sent out.” 

The fire died in the eyes of Torreon. “Do not 
do that, senor,” he exclaimed. “Wait at least 
one day more. Perhaps he will appear. Perhaps 
he has only gone up to Bridgeport to see about 
some arms and cartridges—who can tell? No, 
sir, do not call in the police, I beg you—not yet. 
I myself will search for him. It may be I can get 
some word, some clue. If I can I will notify Miss 
Guerrero immediately.” 

Kennedy turned suddenly. “Torreon,” he 
flashed quickly, “what do you suspect about that 
shipment of half a million silver dollars? Where 
did it go after it left the wharf?” 

Torreon kept his composure admirably. An 
enigma of a smile flitted over his mobile features 


330 


THE SILENT BULLET 

as he shrugged his shoulders. 44 Ah,” he said 
simply, ‘ 4 then you have heard that the money is 
missing? Perhaps Guerrero has not gone to 
Bridgeport, after all!” 

“On condition that I do not notify the police— 
yet—will you take us to visit Senora Mendez, 
and let us learn from her what she knows of this 
strange case?” 

Torreon was plainly cornered. He sat for a 
moment biting his nails nervously and fidgeting 
in his chair. “It shall be as you wish,” he as¬ 
sented at length. 

“We are to go,” continued Kennedy, “merely 
as friends of yours, you understand? I want to 
ask questions in my own way, and you are not 
to—” 

“Yes, yes,” he agreed. “Wait. I will tell 
her we are coming,” and he reached for the tele¬ 
phone. 

“No,” interrupted Kennedy. “I prefer to go 
with you unexpected. Put down the telephone. 
Otherwise, I may as well notify my friend In¬ 
spector O’Connor of the Central Office and go up 
with him.” 

Torreon let the receiver fall back in its socket, 
and I caught just a glimpse of the look of hate 
and suspicion which crossed his face as he turned 
toward Kennedy. When he spoke it was as 
suavely as if he himself were the one who had 
planned this little excursion. 


THE ARTIFICIAL PARADISE 331 

“It shall be as you wish,” he said, leading the 
way out to the cross-town surface cars. 

Senora Mendez received us politely, and we 
were ushered into a large music-room in her 
apartment. There were several people there al¬ 
ready. They were seated in easy chairs about 
the room. 

One of the ladies was playing on the piano as 
we entered. It was a curious composition—very 
rhythmic, with a peculiar thread of monotonous 
melody running through it. 

The playing ceased, and all eyes were fixed on 
us. Kennedy kept very close to Torreon, appar¬ 
ently for the purpose of frustrating any attempt 
at a whispered conversation with the senora. 

The guests rose and with courtly politeness 
bowed as Senora Mendez presented two friends 
of Senor Torreon, Senor Kennedy and Sehor 
Jameson. We were introduced in turn to Senor 
and Senora Aivardo, Senor Gonzales, Senorita 
Reyes, and the player, Senora Barrios. 

It was a peculiar situation, and for want of 
something better to say I commented on the curi¬ 
ous character of the music we had overheard as 
we entered. 

The senora smiled, and was about to speak 
when a servant entered, bearing a tray full of 
little cups with a steaming liquid, and in a silver 
dish some curious, round, brown, disc-like but¬ 
tons, about an inch in diameter and perhaps a 


332 THE SILENT BULLET 

quarter of an inch thick. Torreon motioned 
frantically to the servant to withdraw, but Ken¬ 
nedy was too quick for him. Interposing himself 
between Torreon and the servant, he made way 
for her to enter. 

“You were speaking of the music,” replied 
Senora Mendez to me in rich, full tones. “Yes, 
it is very curious. It is a song of the Kiowa In¬ 
dians of New Mexico which Senora Barrios has 
endeavoured to set to music so that it can be ren¬ 
dered on the piano. Senora Barrios and myself 
fled from Yespuccia to Mexico at the start of our 
revolution, and when the Mexican government 
ordered us to leave on account of our political 
activity we merely crossed the line to the United 
States, in New Mexico. It was there that we 
ran across this very curious discovery. The mo¬ 
notonous beat of that melody you heard is sup¬ 
posed to represent the beating of the tom-toms 
of the Indians during their mescal rites. We are 
having a mescal evening here, whiling away the 
hours of exile from our native Yespuccia.” 

“ Mescal 1” I repeated blankly at first, then 
feeling a nudge from Kennedy, I added hastily: 
“Oh, yes, to be sure. I think I have heard of it. 
It’s a Mexican drink, is it not? I have never had 
the pleasure of tasting it or of tasting that other 
drink, pulque—poolkay—did I get the accent 
right f ’ 9 

I felt another, sharper nudge from Kennedy, 


THE ARTIFICIAL PARADISE 333 

and knew that I had only made matters worse. 
“Mr. Jameson ,’’ he hastened to remark, “con¬ 
founds this mescal of the Indians with the drink 
of the same name that is common in Mexico.” 

“Oh,” she laughed, to my great relief, “but 
this mescal is something quite different. The 
Mexican drink mescal is made from the maguey- 
plant and is a frightfully horrid thing that sends 
the peon out of his senses and makes him violent. 
Mescal as I mean it is a little shrub, a god, a cult, 
a religion.” 

“Yes,” assented Kennedy; “discovered by 
those same Kiowa Indians, was it not?” 

“Perhaps,” she admitted, raising her beauti¬ 
ful shoulders in polite deprecation. “The mes¬ 
cal religion, we found, has spread very largely in 
New Mexico and Arizona among the Indians, and 
with the removal of the Kiowas to the Indian res¬ 
ervation it has been adopted by other tribes—- 
even, I have heard, as far north as the Canadian 
border.” 

“Is that so?” asked Kennedy. “I understood 
that the United States government had forbidden 
the importation of the mescal plant and its sale 
to the Indians under severe penalties.” 

“It has, sir,” interposed Alvardo, who had 
joined us, “but still the mescal cult grows se¬ 
cretly. For my part, I think it might be more 
wise for your authorities to look to the whiskey 
and beer that unscrupulous persons are selling. 


334 ! ,THE SILENT BULLET 

Senor Jameson,” he added, turning to me, “will 
you join us in a little cup of this artificial para¬ 
dise, as one of your English writers—Havelock 
Ellis, I think—has appropriately called it?” 

I glanced dubiously at Kennedy as Senora 
Mendez took one of the little buttons out of the 
silver tray. Carefully paring the fuzzy tuft of 
hairs off the top of it—it looked to me very much 
like the tip of a cactus plant, which, indeed, it 
was—she rolled it into a little pellet and placed 
it in her mouth, chewing it slowly like a piece of 
chicle. 

“Watch me; do just as I do,” whispered Ken¬ 
nedy to me at a moment when no one was look¬ 
ing. 

The servant advanced towards us with the tray. 

“The mescal plant,” explained Alvardo, point¬ 
ing at the little discs, “grows precisely like these 
little buttons which you see here. It is a species 
of cactus which rises only half an inch or so from 
the ground. The stem is surrounded by a clump 
of blunt leaves which give it its button shape, and 
on the top you will see still the tuft of filaments, 
like a cactus. It grows in the rocky soil in many 
places in the state of Jalisco, though only re¬ 
cently has it become known to science. The In¬ 
dians, when they go out to gather it, simply lop 
off these little ends as they peep above the earth, 
dry them, keep what they wish for their own use, 
and sell the rest for what is to them a fabulous 


THE AETIFICIAL PABADISE 335 

sum. Some people chew the buttons, while a few 
have lately tried making an infusion or tea out 
of them. Perhaps to a beginner I had better rec¬ 
ommend the infusion.” 

I had scarcely swallowed the bitter, almost 
nauseous decoction than I began to feel my heart 
action slowing up and my pulse beating fuller 
and stronger. The pupils of my eyes expanded 
as with a dose of belladonna; at least, I could see 
that Kennedy’s did, and so mine must have done 
the same. 

I seemed to feel an elated sense of superiority 
—really I almost began to feel that it was I, not 
Kennedy, who counted most in this investigation. 
I have since learned that this is the common ex¬ 
perience of mescal-users, this sense of elation; 
but the feeling of physical energy and intellec¬ 
tual power soon wore off, and I found myself 
glad to recline in my easy chair, as the rest did, 
in silent indolence. 

Still, the display that followed for an en¬ 
chanted hour or so was such as I find it hopeless 
to describe in language which shall convey to 
others the beauty and splendour of what I saw. 

I picked up a book lying on the table before 
me. A pale blue-violet shadow floated across the 
page before me, leaving an after-image of pure 
colour that was indescribable. I laid down the 
book and closed my eyes. A confused riot of 
images and colours like a kaleidoscope crowded 


336 THE SILENT BULLET 

before roe, at first indistinct, bnt, as I gazed with 
closed eyes, more and more definite. Golden and 
red and green jewels seemed to riot before me. 
I bathed my hands in inconceivable riches of 
beauty such as no art-glass worker has ever pro¬ 
duced. All discomfort ceased. I had no desire 
to sleep—in fact, was hyper-sensitive. But it 
was a real effort to open my eyes; to tear myself 
away from the fascinating visions of shapes and 
colours. 

At last I did open my eyes to gaze at the gas- 
jets of the chandelier as they flickered. They 
seemed to send out waves, expanding and con¬ 
tracting, waves of colour. The shadows of the 
room were highly coloured and constantly 
changing as the light changed. 

Senora Barrios began lightly to play on the 
piano the transposed Kiowa song, emphasising 
the notes that represented the drum-beats. 
Strange as it may seem, the music translated it¬ 
self into pure colour—and the rhythmic beating 
of the time seemed to aid the process. I thought 
of the untutored Indians as they sat in groups 
about the flickering camp-fire while others beat 
the tom-toms and droned the curious melody. 
What were the visions of the red man, I wondered, 
as he chewed his mescal button and the medicine; 
man prayed to Hikori, the cactus god, to grant 
a “beautiful intoxication V 9 

Under the gas-lights of the chandelier hung a 


THE ARTIFICIAL PARADISE 337 

cluster of electric light bulbs which added to the 
flood of golden effulgence that bathed the room 
and all things in it. I gazed next intently at the 
electric lights. They became the sun itself in 
their steadiness, until I had to turn away my 
head and close my eyes. Even then the image 
persisted—I saw the golden sands of Newport, 
only they were blazing with glory as if they were 
veritable diamond dust. I saw the waves, of 
incomparable blue, rolling up on the shore. A 
vague perfume was wafted on the air. I was in 
an orgy of vision. Yet there was no stage of 
maudlin emotion. It was at least elevating. 

Kennedy’s experiences as he related them to 
me afterwards were similar, though sufficiently 
varied to be interesting. His visions took the 
forms of animals—a Cheshire cat, like that in 
66 Alice in Wonderland,” with merely a grin 
that faded away, changing into a lynx which in 
turn disappeared, followed by an unknown crea¬ 
ture with short nose and pointed ears, then tor¬ 
toises and guinea-pigs, a perfectly unrelated suc¬ 
cession of beasts. When the playing began a, 
beautiful panorama unfolded before him—the 
regular notes in the music enhancing the beauty 
and changes in the scenes, which he described as 
a most wonderful kinetoscopic display. 

In fact, only De Quincey or Bayard Taylor or 
Poe could have done justice to the thrilling ef¬ 
fects of the drug, and not even they unless an 


338 


THE SILENT BULLET 


amanuensis had been seated by them to take 
down wbat they dictated, for I defy anyone to re¬ 
member anything but a fraction of the rapid 
march of changes under its influence. Indeed, 
in observing its action I almost forgot for the 
time being the purpose of our visit, so fascinated 
was I. The music ceased, but not the visions. 

Senora Mendez advanced toward us. The 
spangles on her net dress seemed to give her a 
fairy-like appearance; she seemed to float over 
the carpet like a glowing, fleecy, white cloud over 
a rainbow-tinted sky. 

Kennedy, however, had not for an instant for¬ 
gotten what we were there for, and his attention 
recalled mine. I was surprised to see that when 
I made the effort I could talk and think quite as 
rationally as ever, though the wildest pranks 
were going on in my mind and vision. Kennedy 
did not beat about in putting his question, evi¬ 
dently counting on the surprise to extract the 
truth. 

“What time did Senor Guerrero leave last 
night !” 

The question came so suddenly that she had no 
time to think of a reply that would conceal any¬ 
thing she might otherwise have wished to con¬ 
ceal. 

“About ten o’clock,” she answered, then in¬ 
stantly was on her guard, for Torreon had caught 
her eye. 


THE AETIFICIAL PARADISE 339 


“And yon have no idea where he went?” asked 
Kennedy. 

“None, unless he went home,” she replied 
guardedly. 

I did not at the time notice the significance of 
her prompt response to Torreon’s warning. I 
did not notice, as did Kennedy, the smile that 
spread over Torreon’s features. The music had 
started again, and I was oblivious to all but the 
riot of colour. 

Again the servant entered. She seemed 
clothed in a halo of light and colour, every fold 
of her dress radiating the most delicate tones. 
Yet there was nothing voluptuous or sensual 
about it. I was raised above earthly thin 0,0 
Men and women were no longer men and won 
—they were brilliant creatures of whom I v 
one. It was sensuous, but not sensual. I look 
at my own clothes. My every-day suit was ide 
ised. My hands were surrounded by a glow 
red fire that made me feel that they must be 1 
hands of a divinity. I noticed them as I reach 
forward toward the tray of little cups. 

There swam into my line of vision another sr 
hand. It laid itself on my arm. A voice sa 
in my ear softly: 

“No, Waiter, we have had enough. Come, leu 
us go. This is not like any other known drug— 
not even the famous Cannabis indica, hasheesh. 
Let us go as soon as we politely can. I have 


340 THE SILENT BULLET 

found out what I wanted to know. Guerrero is 
not here.” 

We rose shortly and excused ourselves and, 
with general regrets in which all but Torreon 
joined, were bowed out with the same courtly 
politeness with which we had been received. 

As we left the house, the return to the world 
was quick. It was like coming out from the 
matinee and seeing the crowds on the street. 
They, not the matinee, were unreal for the mo¬ 
ment. But, strange to say, I found one felt no 
depression as a result of the mescal intoxication. 

“What is it about mescal that produces such 
results?” I asked. 

“The alkaloids,” replied Kennedy as we 
walked slowly along. “Mescal was first brought 
to the attention of scientists by explorers em¬ 
ployed by our bureau of ethnology. Dr. Weir 
Mitchell and Dr. Harvey Wiley and several Ger¬ 
man scientists have investigated it since then. 
It is well known that it contains half a dozen, 
alkaloids and resins of curious and little-inves¬ 
tigated nature. I can’t recall even the names of 
them offhand, but I have them in my labora¬ 
tory. ’ ’ 

As the effect of the mescal began to wear off 
in the fresh air, I found myself in a peculiar 
questioning state. What had we gained by our 
visit? Looking calmly at it, I could not help but 
ask myself why both Torreon and Senora Mendez 


THE ARTIFICIAL PARADISE 341 


had acted as if they were concealing something 
about the whereabouts of Guerrero. Was she a 
spy? Did she know anything about the loss of 
the half-million dollars? 

Of one thing I was certain. Torreon was an 
ardent admirer of the beautiful senora, equally 
ardent with Guerrero. Was he simply a jealous 
suitor, angry at his rival, and now glad that he 
was out of the way? Where had Guerrero gone? 
The question was still unanswered. 

Absorbed in these reveries, I did not notice 
particularly where Kennedy was hurrying me. 
In fact, finding no plausible answer to my specu¬ 
lations and knowing that it was useless to ques¬ 
tion Kennedy at this stage of his inquiry, I did 
not for the moment care where we went but al¬ 
lowed him to take the lead. 

We entered one of the fine apartments on the 
drive and rode up in the elevator. A door opened 
and, with a start, I found myself in the presenc 
of Miss Guerrero again. The questioning 1> 
on her face recalled the object of our search, £ 
its ill success so far. Why had Kennedy co 
back with so little to report? 

“Have you heard any thing ?” she ask 
eagerly. 

“Not directly,” replied Kennedy. “But I 
have a clue, at least. I believe that Torreon 
knows where your father is and will let you know 
any moment now. It is to his interest to clear 


:he silent bullet 


)re this scandal about the money be¬ 
comes generally known. Would you allow me 
to search through your father’s desk?” 

For some moments Kennedy rummaged 
through the drawers and pigeonholes, silently. 

“ Where does the junta keep its arms stored— 
not in the meeting-place on South Street does 
it?” asked Kennedy at length. 

“Not exactly; that would be a little too risky,” 
she replied. “I believe they have a loft above 
the office, hired in someone else’s name and not 
connected with the place down-stairs at ail. My 
father and Senor Torreon are the only ones who 
have the keys. Why do you ask?” 

“I ask,” replied Craig, “because I was won¬ 
dering whether there might not be something that 
would take him down to South Street last night. 
It is the only place I can think of his going to at 
such a late hour, unless he has gone out of town. 
If we do not hear from Torreon soon I think I 
will try what I can find down there. Ah, what is 
this?” 

Kennedy drew forth a little silver box and 
opened it. Inside reposed a dozen mescal but¬ 
tons. 

We both looked quickly at Miss Guerrero, but 
it was quite evident that she was unacquainted 
with them. 

She was about to ask what Kennedy had found 
when the telephone rang and the maid announced 


THE ARTIFICIAL PARADISE 343 

that Miss Guerrero was wanted by Senor Tor- 
reon. 

A smile of gratification flitted over Kennedy’s 
face as he leaned over to me and whispered: “It 
is evident that Torreon is anxious to clear him¬ 
self. I’ll wager he has done some rapid hustling 
since we left him.” 

“Perhaps this is some word about my father 
at last,” murmured Miss Guerrero as she nerv¬ 
ously hurried to the telephone, and answered. 
“Yes, this is Senorita Guerrero, Senor Torreon. 
You are at the office of the junta? Yes, yes, you 
have word from my father—you went down 
there to-night expecting some guns to be deliv¬ 
ered?—and you found him there—up-stairs in 
the loft—ill, did you say?—unconscious?” 

In an instant her face was drawn and pale, and 
the receiver fell clattering to the hard-wood floor 
from her nerveless fingers. 

“He is dead!” she gasped as she swayed back¬ 
ward and I caught her. With Kennedy’s help I 
carried her, limp and unconscious, across the 
room, and placed her in a deep armchair. I stood 
at her side, but for the moment could only look 
on helplessly, blankly at the now stony beauty 
of her face. 

“Some water, Juanita, quick!” I cried as 
soon as I had recovered from the shock. “Have 
you any smelling-salts or anything of that sort? 
Perhaps you can find a little brandy. Hurry.” 


344 


THE SILENT BULLET 


While we were making her comfortable the 
telephone continued to tinkle. 

“This is Kennedy,” I heard Craig say, as 
Jnanita came hurrying in with water, smelling- 
salts, and brandy. “You fool. She fainted. 
Why couldn’t you break it to her gently? 
What’s that address on South Street? You 
found him over the junta meeting-place in a loft? 
Yes, I understand. What were you doing down 
there? You went down expecting a shipment of 
arms and saw a light overhead—I see—and sus¬ 
pecting something you entered with a policeman. 
You heard him move across the floor above and 
fall heavily? All right. Someone will be down 
directly. Ambulance surgeon has tried every¬ 
thing, you say? No heart action, no breathing? 
Sure. Very well. Let the body remain just where 
it is until I get down. Oh, wait. How long ago 
did it happen? Fifteen minutes? All right. 
Good-bye.” 

Such restoratives as we had found we applied 
faithfully. At last we were rewarded by the first 
flutter of an eyelid. Then Miss Guerrero gazed 
wildly about. 

“He is dead,” she moaned. “They have killed 
him. I know it. My father is dead. ’ ’ Over and 
over she repeated: “He is dead. I shall never 
see him again.” 

Vainly I tried to soothe her. What was there 
to say? There could be no doubt about it. Tor- 


THE ARTIFICIAL PARADISE 345 


reon must have gone down directly after we left 
Senora Mendez. He had seen a light in the loft, 
had entered with a policeman—as a witness, he 
had told Craig over the “telephone—had heard 
Guerrero fall, and had sent for the ambulance. 
How long Guerrero had been there he did not 
know, for while members of the junta had been 
coming and going all day in the office below none 
had gone up into the locked loft. 

Kennedy with rare skill calmed Miss Guerrero’s 
dry-eyed hysteria into a gentle rain of tears, 
which relieved her overwrought feelings. We si¬ 
lently withdrew, leaving the two women, mistress 
and servant, weeping. 

“Craig,” I asked when we had gained the 
street, “what do you make of it? We must lose 
no time. Arrest this Mendez woman before she 
has a chance to escape.” 

“Not so fast, Walter,” he cautioned as we spun 
along in a taxicab. “Our case isn’t very com¬ 
plete against anybody yet.” 

“But it looks black for Guerrero,” I admitted. 
“Dead men tell no tales even to clear them¬ 
selves.” 

“It all depends on speed now,” he answered 
laconically. 

We had reached the university, which was only 
a few blocks away, and Craig dashed into his 
laboratory while I settled with the driver. He 
reappeared almost instantly with some bulky ap- 


346 THE SILENT BULLET 

paratus under his arm, and we more than ran 
from the building to the near-by subway station. 
Fortunately there was an express just pulling in, 
as we tumbled down the steps. 

To one who knows South Street as merely a 
river-front street whose glory of other days has 
long since departed, where an antiquated horse- 
car now ambles slowly up-town, and trucks and 
carts all day long are in a perpetual jam, it is 
peculiarly uninteresting by day, and peculiarly 
deserted and vicious by night. But there is an¬ 
other fascination about South Street. Perhaps 
there has never been a revolution in Latin Amer¬ 
ica which has not in some way or other been con¬ 
nected with this street, whence hundreds of fili¬ 
bustering expeditions have started. Whenever a 
dictator is to be overthrown, or half a dozen choc¬ 
olate-skinned generals in the Caribbean become 
dissatisfied with their portions of gold lace, the 
arms- and ammunition-dealers of South Street 
can give, if they choose, an advance scenario of 
the whole tragedy or comic opera, as the case 
may be. Real war or opera-bouffe, it is all grist 
for the mills of these close-mouthed individuals. 

Our quest took us to a ramshackle building 
reminiscent of the days when the street bristled 
with bowsprits of ships from all over the world, 
an age when the American merchantman flew our 
flag on the uttermost of the seven-seas. On the 
ground floor was an apparently innocent junk- 


THE ARTIFICIAL PARADISE 347 

'dealer's shop, in reality the meeting-place of the 
junta. By an outside stairway the lofts above 
were reached, hiding their secrets behind win¬ 
dows opaque with decades of dust. 

At the door we were met by Torreon and the 
policeman. Both appeared to be shocked beyond 
measure. Torreon was profuse in explanations 
[which did not explain. Out of the tangled mass 
of verbiage I did manage to extract, however, the 
impression that, come what might to the other 
members of the junta, Torreon was determined 
to clear his own name at any cost. He and the 
policeman had discovered Senor Guerrero only a 
short time before, up-stairs. For all he knew, 
Guerrero had been there some time, perhaps all 
day, while the others were meeting down-stairs. 
Except for the light he might have been there un¬ 
discovered still. Torreon swore he had heard 
Guerrero fall; the policeman was not quite so 
positive. 

Kennedy listened impatiently, then sprang up 
the stairs, only to call back to the policeman: 
“Go call me a taxicab at the ferry, an electric 
cab. Mind, now, not a gasoline-cab—electric." 

We found the victim lying on a sort of bed of 
sailcloth in a loft apparently devoted to the peace¬ 
ful purposes of the junk trade, but really a per¬ 
fect arsenal and magazine. It was dusty and 
cobwebbed, crammed with stands of arms, tents, 
uniforms in bales, batteries of Maxims and 


348 


THE SILENT BULLET 


mountain-guns, and all the paraphernalia for 
carrying on a real twentieth-century revolution. 

The young ambulance surgeon was still there, 
so quickly had we been able to get down-town. 
He had his stomach-pump, hypodermic syringe, 
emetics, and various tubes spread out on a piece 
of linen on a packing-case. Kennedy at once in¬ 
quired just what he had done. 

“Thought at first it was only a bad case of syn¬ 
cope,” he replied, “but I guess he was dead some 
minutes before I got here. Tried rhythmic trac¬ 
tion of the tongue, artificial respiration, stimu¬ 
lants, chest and heart massage—everything, but 
it was no use.” 

“Have you any idea what caused his death!” 
asked Craig as he hastily adjusted his apparatus 
to an electric light socket—a rheostat, an induc¬ 
tion-coil of peculiar shape, and an “interrupter.” 

“Poison of some kind—an alkaloid. They say 
they heard him fall as they came up-stairs, and 
when they got to him he was blue. His face was 
as bluj as it is now when I arrived. Asphyxia, 
failure of both heart and lungs, that was what 
the alkaloid caused.” 

The gong of the electric cab sounded outside. 
As Craig heard it he rushed with two wires to 
the window, threw them out, and hurried down¬ 
stairs, attaching them to the batteries of the 
cab. 

In an instant he was back again. 


THE ARTIFICIAL PARADISE 349 

“Now, Doctor/’ he said, “Pm going to per¬ 
form a very delicate test on this man. Here 1 
have the alternating city current and here a di¬ 
rect, continuous current from the storage-bat¬ 
teries of the cab below. Doctor, hold his mouth 
open. So. Now, have you a pair of forceps 
handy? Good. Can you catch hold of the tip of 
his tongue? There. Do just as I tell you. lap- 
ply this cathode to his skin in the dorsal region, 
under the back of the neck, and this anode in the 
lumbar region at the base of the spine—just 
pieces of cotton soaked in salt solution and cov¬ 
ering the metal electrodes, to give me a good con¬ 
tact with the body.” 

I was fascinated. It was gruesome, and yet I 
could not take my eyes off it. Torreon stood 
blankly, in a daze. Craig was as calm as if his 
every-day work was experimenting on cadavers. 

He applied the current, moving the anode and 
the cathode slowly. I had often seen the experi¬ 
ments on the ne*rves of a frog that had been 
freshly killed, how the electric current will make 
the muscles twitch, as discovered long ago by Gal- 
vani. But I was not prepared to see it on a hu¬ 
man being. Torreon muttered something and 
crossed himself. 

The arms seemed half to rise—then suddenly 
to fall, flabby again. There was a light hiss like 
an inspiration and expiration of air, a ghastly 
sound. 


350 


THE SILENT BULLET 

“Lungs react,” muttered Kennedy, “but the 
heart doesn’t. I must increase the voltage.” 

Again he applied the electrodes. 

The face seemed a different shade of blue, I 
thought. 

“Good God, Kennedy,” I exclaimed, “do you 
suppose the effect of that mescal on me hasn’t 
worn off yet? Blue, blue—everything blue is 
playing pranks before my eyes. Tell me, is the 
blue of that face—his face—is it changing? Do 
you see it, or do I imagine it?” 

“Blood asphyxiated,” was the disjointed re¬ 
ply. “The oxygen is clearing it.” 

“But, Kennedy,” I persisted, “his face was 
dark blue, black a minute ago. The most aston¬ 
ishing change has taken place. Its colour is 
almost natural now. Do I imagine it or is it 
real?’ ’ 

Kennedy was so absorbed in his work that he 
made no reply at all. He heard nothing, nothing 
save the slow, forced inspiration and expiration 
of air as he deftly and quickly manipulated the 
electrodes. 

“Doctor,” he cried at length, “tell me what is 
going on in that heart. ’ ’ 

The young surgeon bent his head and placed 
his ear on the cold breast. As he raised his eyes 
and they chanced to rest on Kennedy’s hands, 
holding the electrodes dangling idly in the air, I 
think I never saw a greater look of astonishment 


THE ARTIFICIAL PARADISE 351 


on a human face. “It—is—almost—natural/’ 
he gasped. 

“With great care and a milk diet for a few 
days Guerrero will live/’ said Kennedy quietly. 
“It is natural.’’ 

“My God, man, but he was dead!” exclaimed 
the surgeon. “I know it. His heart was stopped 
and his lungs collapsed.” 

“To all intents and purposes he was dead, dead 
as ever a man was,” replied Craig, “and would 
be now, if I hadn’t happened to think of this 
special induction-coil loaned to me by a doctor 
who had studied deeply the process of electric 
resuscitation developed by Professor Leduc of 
the Nantes Ecole de Medicin. There is only one 
case I know of on record which compares with 
this—a case of a girl resuscitated in Paris. The 
girl was a chronic morphine-eater and was ‘dead’ 
forty minutes.” 

I stood like one frozen, the thing was so incom¬ 
prehensible, after the many surprises of the even¬ 
ing that had preceded. Torreon, in fact, did not 
comprehend for the moment. 

As Kennedy and I bent over, Guerrero’s eyes 
opened, hut he apparently saw nothing. His 
hand moved a little, and his lips parted. Ken¬ 
nedy quickly reached into the pockets of the man 
gasping for breath, one after another. From a 
vest pocket he drew a little silver case, identical 
with that he had found in the desk up-town. He 


352 THE SILENT BULLET 

opened it, and one mescal button rolled out into 
the palm of Ms band. Kennedy regarded it 
thoughtfully. 

“I suspect there is at least one devotee of the! 
vision-breeding drug who will no longer cultivate 
its use, as a result of this,” he. added, looking 
significantly at the man before us. 

“Guerrero,” shouted Kennedy, placing his 
mouth close to the man’s ear, but muffling his 
voice so that only I could distinguish what he 
said, “Guerrero, where is the money?” 

His lips moved trembling again, but I could not. 
make out that he said anything. 

Kennedy rose and quietly went over to detach 
his apparatus from the electric light socket be¬ 
hind Torreon. 

“Car-ramba!” I heard as I turned suddenly. 

Craig had Torreon firmly pinioned from be¬ 
hind by both arms. The policeman quickly in¬ 
terposed. 

“It’s all right, officer,” exclaimed Craig. 
“Walter, reach into his inside pocket.” 

I pulled out a bunch of papers and turned them 
over. 

“What’s that?” asked Kennedy as I came to 
something neatly enclosed in an envelope. 

I opened it. It was a power of attorney from 
Guerrero to Torreon. 

“Perhaps it is no crime to give a man mescal 
if he wants it—I doubt if the penal code covers 


THE ARTIFICIAL PARADISE 

that,” ejaculated Kennedy. “But it is co: 
acy to give it to him and extract a power of at¬ 
torney by which you can get control of trust funds 
consigned to him. Manuel Torreon, the game is 
up. You and Senora Mendez have played your 
parts well. But you have lost. You waited un¬ 
til you thought Guerrero was dead, then you took 
a policeman along as a witness to clear yourself. 
But the secret is not dead, after all. Is there 
nothing else in those papers, Walter? Yes? 
Ah, a bill of lading dated to-day? Ten cases of 
‘scrap iron’ from New York to Boston—a long 
chance for such valuable ‘scrap,’ senor, but I sup¬ 
pose you had to get the money away from New 
York, at any risk.” 

“And Senora Mendez?” I asked as my mind in¬ 
voluntarily reverted to the brilliantly lighted 
room up-town. “What part did she have in the 
plot against Guerrero?” 

Torreon stood sullenly silent. Kennedy 
reached in another of Torreon’s pockets and drew 
out a third little silver box of mescal buttons. 
Holding all three of the boxes, identically the 
same, before us he remarked: “Evidently Tor¬ 
reon was not averse to having his victim under 
the influence of mescal as much as possible. He 
must have forced it on him—all’s fair in love and 
revolution, I suppose. I believe he brought him 
down here under the influence of mescal last 
night, obtained the power of attorney, and left 


354’ THE SILENT BULLET 

him here to die of the mescal intoxication. It 
was just a case of too strong a hold of the mescal 
*—the artificial paradise was too alluring to Guer¬ 
rero, and Torreon knew it and tried to profit by 
it to the extent of half a million dollars .’ 9 

It was more than I could grasp at the instant. 
The impossible had happened. I had seen the 
dead—literally—brought back to life and the se¬ 
cret which the criminal believed buried wrung 
from the grave. 

Kennedy must have noted the puzzled look on 
my face. ‘‘Walter,” he said, casually, as he 
wrapped up his instruments, “don’t stand there 
gaping like Billikin. Our part in this case is fin¬ 
ished—at least mine is. But I suspect from some 
of the glances I have seen you steal at various 
times that—well, perhaps you would like a few 
moments in a real paradise. I saw a telephone 
down-stairs. Go call up Miss Guerrero and tell 
her her father is alive—and innocent.” 


XII 


THE STEEL DOOR 

It was what, in college, we used to call “good 
football weather’’— a crisp, autumn afternoon 
that sent the blood tingling through brain and 
muscle. Kennedy and I were enjoying a stroll 
on the drive, dividing our attention between the 
glowing red sunset across the Hudson and the 
string of homeward-bound automobiles on the 
broad parkway. Suddenly a huge black touring- 
car marked with big letters, “P. D. N. Y.,” shot 
past. 

“Joy-riding again in one of the city’s cars,” I 
remarked. “I thought the last Police Depart¬ 
ment shake-up had put a stop to that.” 

“Perhaps it has,” returned Kennedy. “Did 
you see who was in the car?” 

“No, but I see it has turned and is coming 
back. ’ ’ 

“It was Inspector—I mean, First Deputy 
O’Connor. I thought he recognised us as he 
whizzed along, and I guess he did, too. Ah, con¬ 
gratulations, O’Connor! I haven’t had a chance 
to tell you before how pleased I was to learn you 
had been appointed first deputy. It ought to 

355 


350 THE SILENT BULLET 

have been commissioner, though,’’ added Ken¬ 
nedy. 

“Congratulations nothing,” rejoined O’Con¬ 
nor. “Just another new deal—election coming 
on, mayor must make a show of getting some re¬ 
form done, and all that sort of thing. So he be¬ 
gan with the Police Department, and here I am, 
first deputy. But, say, Kennedy,” he added, 
dropping his voice, “I’ve a little job on my mind 
chat I’d like to pull off in about as spectacular a 
fashion as I—as you know how. I want to make 
good, conspicuously good, at the start—under¬ 
stand? Maybe I’ll be ‘broke’ for it and sent to 
pounding the pavements of Dismissalville, but I 
don’t care, I’ll take a chance. On the level, Ken¬ 
nedy, it’s a big thing, and it ought to be done. 
Will you help me put it across?” 

“What is it?” asked Kennedy with a twinkle 
in his eye at O’Connor’s estimate of the security 
of his tenure of office. 

O’Connor drew us away from the automobile 
toward the stone parapet overlooking the railroad 
and river far below, and out of earshot of the de¬ 
partment chauffeur. “I want to pull off a suc¬ 
cessful raid on the Vesper Club,” he whispered 
earnestly, scanning our faces. 

“Good heavens, man,” I ejaculated, “don’t you 
know that Senator Danfield is interested in—” 

“Jameson,” interrupted O’Connor reproach¬ 
fully, “I said ‘on the level’ a few moments ago, 



357 


THE STEEL DOOR 

and I meant it. Senator Danfield be—well, any¬ 
how, if I don’t do it the district attorney will, 
with the aid of the Dowling law, and I am going 
to beat him to it, that’s all. There’s too much 
money being lost at the Vesper Club, anyhow. It 
won’t hurt Danfield to be taught a lesson not to 
run such a phony game. I may like to put up a 
quiet bet myself on the ponies now and then—I 
won’t say I don’t, but this thing of Danfield’s has 
got beyond all reason. It’s the crookedest gam¬ 
bling joint in the city, at least judging by the 
stories they tell of losses there. And so beastly 
aristocratic, too. Read that.” 

O’Connor shoved a letter into Kennedy’s hand, 
a dainty perfumed and monogramed little mis¬ 
sive addressed in a feminine hand. It was such 
a letter as comes by the thousand to the police in 
the course of a year, though seldom from ladies 
of the smart set: 

Dear Sir: I notice in the newspapers this morning 
that you have just been appointed first deputy commis¬ 
sioner of police and that you have been ordered to sup¬ 
press gambling in New York. For the love that you 
must still bear toward your own mother, listen to the 
story of a mother worn with anxiety for her only son, 
and if there is any justice or righteousness in this great 
city close up a gambling hell that is sending to ruin 
scores of our finest young men. No doubt you know or 
have heard of my family—the DeLongs are not un¬ 
known in New York. Perhaps you have also heard of 


358 


THE SILENT BULLET 

the losses of my son Percival at the Vesper Club. They 
are fast becoming the common talk of onr set. I am not 
rich, Mr. Commissioner, in spite of our social position, 
but I am human, as human as a mother in any station 
of life, and oh, if there is any way, close up that gilded 
society resort that is dissipating our small fortune, ruin¬ 
ing an only son, and slowly bringing to the grave a grey¬ 
haired widow, as worthy of protection as any mother 
of the poor whose plea has closed up a little poolroom 
or low policy shop. 

Sincerely, 

(Mrs.) Julia M. DeLong. 


P.S. — Please keep this confidential — at least from 
my son Percival. 


J. M. DeL. 


“Well,” said Kennedy, as lie handed back the 
letter, “O’Connor, if you do it, I’ll take back all 
the hard things I’ve ever said about the police 
system. Young DeLong was in one of my classes 
at the university, until he was expelled for that 
last mad prank of his. There’s more to that boy 
than most people think, but he’s the wildest scion, 
of wealth I have ever come in contact with. How 
are you going to pull off your raid—is it to be 
down through the skylight or up from the cel¬ 
lar?” 

“Kennedy,” replied O’Connor in the same re¬ 
proachful tone with which he had addressed me, 
“talk sense. I’m in earnest. You know the Ves- 


THE STEEL DOOR 


359 


per Club is barred and barricaded like tbe Na¬ 
tional City Bank. It isn’t one of those common 
gambling joints which depend for protection on 
ydiat we call ‘ice-box doors.’ It’s proof against 
all the old methods. Axes and sledge-hammers 
would make no impression there.” 

“Your predecessor had some success at open¬ 
ing doors with a hydraulic jack, I believe, in some 
yery difficult raids,” put in Kennedy. 

“A hydraulic jack wouldn’t do for the Yesper 
Club, I’m afraid,” remarked O’Connor wearily. 
“Why, sir, that place has been proved bomb¬ 
proof-bomb-proof, sir. You remember recently 
the so-called ‘gamblers’ war’ in which some rivals 
exploded a bomb on the steps? It did more dam¬ 
age to the house next door than to the club. How¬ 
ever, I can get past the outer door, I think, even 
if it is strong. But inside—you must have heard 
of it—is the famous steel door, three inches thick, 
made of armour-plate. It’s no use to try it at all 
unless we can pass that door with reasonable 
quickness. All the evidence we shall get will be 
of an innocent social club-room down-stairs. The 
gambling is all on the second floor, beyond this 
door, in a room without a window in it. Surely 
you’ve heard of that famous gambling-room, with 
its perfect system of artificial ventilation and 
electric lighting that makes it rival noonday at 
midnight. And don’t tell me I’ve got to get on 
the other side of the door by strategy, either. It 


360 THE SILENT BULLET 

is strategy-proof. The system of lookouts is per¬ 
fect. No, force is necessary, hut it must not be 
destructive of life or property—or, by heaven, 
I’d drive up there and riddle the place with a 
fourteen-inch gun,” exclaimed O’Connor. 

“H’m!” mused Kennedy as he flicked the ashes 
off his cigar and meditatively watched a passing 
freight-train on the railroad below us. “ There 
goes a car loaded with tons and tons of scrap- 
iron. You want me to scrap that three-inch steel 
door, do you!” 

“Kennedy, I’ll buy that particular scrap from 
you at—almost its weight in gold. The fact is, 
I have a secret fund at my disposal such as 
former commissioners have asked for in vain. I 
can afford to pay you well, as well as any private 
client, and I hear you have had some good fees 
lately. Only deliver the goods.” 

“No,” answered Kennedy, rather piqued, “it 
isn’t money that I am after. I merely wanted to 
be sure that you are in earnest. I can get you 
past that door as if it were made of green baize.” 

It was O’Connor’s turn to look incredulous, but 
as Kennedy apparently meant exactly what he 
said, he simply asked, “And will you!” 

“I will do it to-night if you say so,” replied 
Kennedy quietly. “Are you ready!” 

For answer O’Connor simply grasped Craig’s 
hand, as if to seal the compact. 

“All right, then,” continued Kennedy. “Send 


THE STEEL DOOR 


361 


a furniture-van, one of those closed vans that the 
storage warehouses use, up to my laboratory any 
time before seven o’clock. How many men will 
you need in the raid? Twelve? Will a van hold 
that many comfortably? I’ll want to put some 
apparatus in it, hut that won’t take much room.” 

“Why, yes, I think so,” answered O’Connor. 
“I’ll get a well-padded van so that they won’t 
he badly jolted by the ride down-town. By 
George! Kennedy, I see you know more of that 
zide of police strategy than I gave you credit 
for.” 

“Then have the men drop into my laboratory 
singly about the same time. You can arrange 
that so that it will not look suspicious, so far up¬ 
town. It will be dark, anyhow. Perhaps, 
O’Connor, you can make up as the driver your¬ 
self —anyhow, get one you can trust absolutely. 
Then have the van down near the corner of 
Broadway below the club, driving slowly along 
about the time the theatre crowd is out. Leave 
the rest to me. I will give you or the driver 
1 orders when the time comes.” 

As O’Connor thanked Craig, he remarked with¬ 
out a shade of insincerity, “Kennedy, talk about 
being commissioner, you ought to be commis¬ 
sioner.” 

“Wait till I deliver the goods,” answered 
Craig simply. “I may fall down and bring you 
nothing but a lawsuit for damages for unlawful 


362 THE SILENT BULLET 

entry or unjust persecution, or whatever they call 
it.” 

“I’ll take a chance at that,” called back O’Con¬ 
nor as he jumped into his car and directed, 
“Headquarters, quick.” 

As the car disappeared, Kennedy filled his 
lungs with air as if reluctant to leave the drive. 
“Our constitutional,” he remarked, “is abruptly 
at an end, Walter.” 

Then he laughed, as he looked about him. 

“What a place in which to plot a raid on Dan- 
field’s Vesper Club! Why, the nurse-maids have 
hardly got the children all in for supper and bed. 
It’s incongruous. Well, I must go over to the 
laboratory and get some things ready to put in 
that van with the men. Meet me about half-past 
seven, Walter, up in the room, all togged up. 
We’ll dine at the Cafe Kiviera to-night in style. 
And, by the way, you’re quite a man about town 

you must know someone who can introduce us 
into the Vesper Club.” 

“But, Craig,” I demurred, “if there is any 
rough work as a result, it might queer me with 
them. They might object to being used—” 

“Oh, that will be all right. I just want to look 
the place over and lose a few chips in a good 
cause. No, it won’t queer any of your Star con¬ 
nections. We’ll be on the outside when the time 
comes for anything to happen. In fact I 
shouldn’t wonder if your story would make you 


THE STEEL DOOR 


363 


all the more solid with the sports. I take all the 
responsibility; you can have the glory. You 
know they like to hear the inside gossip of such 
things, after the event. Try it. Remember, at 
seven-thirty. We’ll be a little late at dinner, but 
never mind; it will be early enough for the club.” 

Left to my own devices I determined to do a 
little detective work on my own account, and not 
only did I succeed in finding an acquaintance who 
agreed to introduce us at the Vesper Club that 
night about nine o’clock, but I also learned that 
Percival DeLong was certain to be there that 
night, too. I was necessarily vague about Ken¬ 
nedy, for fear my friend might have heard of 
some of his exploits, but fortunately he did not 
prove inquisitive. 

I hurried back to our apartment and was in the 
process of transforming myself into a full-fledged 
boulevardier, when Kennedy arrived in an ex¬ 
tremely cheerful frame of mind. So far, his 
preparations had progressed very favourably, I 
guessed, and I was quite elated when he compli¬ 
mented me on what I had accomplished in the 
meantime. 

“ Pretty tough for the fellows who are con¬ 
demned to ride around in that van for four mor¬ 
tal hours, though,” he said as he hurried into his 
evening clothes, “but they won’t be riding all the 
time. The driver will make frequent stops.” 

I was so busy that I paid little attention to him 


364 THE SILENT BULLET 

until lie bad nearly completed bis toilet. I gave 

a gasp. 

“Why, whatever are you doing!” I exclaimed 
as I glanced into bis room. 

There stood Kennedy arrayed in all the glory 
of a sharp-pointed moustache and a goatee. He 
had put on evening clothes of decidedly Parisian 
cut, clothes which he had used abroad and had 
brought back with him, but which I had never 
known him to wear since he came back. On a 
chair reposed a chimney-pot hat that would have 
been pronounced faultless on the “continong,” 
but was unknown, except among impresarios, on 
Broadway. 

Kennedy shrugged his shoulders—he even had 
the shrug. 

“Figure to yourself, monsieur,” he said. “Ze 
great Kennedy, ze detectif Americain—to put it 
tersely in our own vernacular, wouldn’t it be a 
fool thing for me to appear at the Vesper Club 
where I should surely be recognised by someone 
if I went in my ordinary clothes and features? 
Un faux pas, at the start! Jamais!” 

There was nothing to do but agree, and I was 
glad that I had been discreetly reticent about my 
companion in talking with the friend who was to 
gain us entrance to the Avernus beyond the steel 
door. 

We met my friend at the Riviera and dined 
sumptuously. Fortunately he seemed decidedly 


THE STEEL DOOR 


365 


impressed with my friend Monsieur Kay—I could 
do no better on the spur of the moment than take 
Kennedy’s initial, which seemed to serve. We 
progressed amicably from oysters and soup down 
to coffee, cigars, and liqueurs, and I succeeded in 
swallowing Kennedy’s tales of Monte Carlo and 
Ostend and Ascot without even a smile. He must 
have heard them somewhere, and treasured them 
up for just such an occasion, but he told them in 
a manner that was verisimilitude itself, using per¬ 
fect English with just the trace of an accent at 
the right places. 

At last it was time to saunter around to the 
Vesper Club without seeming to be too indecently 
early. The theatres were not yet out, but my 
friend said play was just beginning at the club 
and would soon be in full swing. 

I had a keen sense of wickedness as we 
mounted the steps in the yellow flare of the flam¬ 
ing arc-light on the Broadway corner not far be¬ 
low us. A heavy, grated door swung open at the 
practised signal of my friend, and an obsequious 
negro servant stood bowing and pronouncing his 
name in the sombre mahogany portal beyond, 
with its green marble pillars and handsome dec¬ 
orations. A short parley followed, after which 
we entered, my friend having apparently satisfied 
someone that we were all right. 

We did not stop to examine the first floor, 
which doubtless was innocent enough, but turned 


360 


THE SILENT BULLET 

quickly up a flight of steps. At the foot of the 
broad staircase Kennedy paused to examine some 
rich carvings, and I felt him nudge me. I turned* 
It was an enclosed staircase, with walls that 
looked to be of re-enforced concrete. Swung back 
on hinges concealed like those of a modern bur¬ 
glar-proof safe was the famous steel door. 

We did not wish to appear to be too interested, 
yet a certain amount of curiosity was only 
proper. 

My friend paused on the steps, turned, and 
came back. 

“You’re perfectly safe,” he smiled, tapping 
the door with his cane with a sort of affectionate 
respect. “It would take the police ages to get 
past that barrier, which would be swung shut and 
bolted the moment the lookout gave the alarm. 
But there has never been any trouble. The police 
know that it is so far, no farther. Besides,” he 
added with a wink to me, “you know, Senator 
Danfield wouldn’t like this pretty little door even 
scratched. Come up, I think I hear DeLong’s 
voice up-stairs. You’ve heard of him, monsieur? 
It’s, said his luck has changed. I’m anxious to 
find out.” 

Quickly he led the way up the handsome stair¬ 
case and into a large, lofty, richly furnished 
room. Everywhere there were thick, heavy car¬ 
pets on the floors, into which your feet sank with 
an air of satisfying luxury. 


THE STEEL DOOE 


367 


The room into which we entered was indeed 
absolutely windowless. It was a room built 
within the original room of the old house. Thus 
the windows overlooking the street from the sec¬ 
ond floor in reality bore no relation to it. For 
light it depended on a complete oval of lights 
overhead so arranged as to be themselves invis¬ 
ible, but shining through richly stained glass and 
conveying the illusion of a slightly clouded noon¬ 
day. The absence of windows was made, up for, 
as I learned later, by a ventilating device so per¬ 
fect that, although everyone was smoking, a most 
fastidious person could scarcely have been 
offended by the odour of tobacco. 

Of course I did not notice all this at first. 
What I did notice, however, was a faro-layout 
and a hazard-board, but as no one was playing at 
either, my eye quickly travelled to a roulette- 
table which stretched along the middle of the 
room. Some ten or a dozen men in evening 
clothes were gathered watching with intent faces 
the spinning wheel. There was no money on the 
table, nothing but piles of chips of various de¬ 
nominations. Another thing that surprised me 
as I looked was that the tense look on the faces 
of the players was anything but the feverish, hag¬ 
gard gaze I had expected. In fact, they were 
sleek, well-fed, typical prosperous New-Yorkers 
rather inclined to the noticeable in dress and 
carrying their avoirdupois as if life was an easy 


368 THE SILENT BULLET 

game with them. Most of them evidently be¬ 
longed to the financial and society classes. There 
were no tragedies; the tragedies were elsewhere 
—in their offices, homes, in the courts, anywhere, 
but not here at the club. Here all was life, light, 
and laughter. 

For the benefit of those not acquainted with the 
roulette-wheel—and I may as well confess that 
most of my own knowledge was gained in that 
one crowded evening—I may say that it consists, 
briefly, of a wooden disc very nicely balanced and 
turning in the centre of a cavity set into a table 
like a circular wash-basin, with an outer rim 
turned slightly inward. The “croupier” re¬ 
volves the wheel to the right. With a quick mo¬ 
tion of his middle finger he flicks a marble, usu¬ 
ally of ivory, to the left. At the Vesper Club, al¬ 
ways up-to-date, the ball was of platinum, not of 
ivory. The disc with its sloping sides is pro¬ 
vided with a number of brass rods, some perpen¬ 
dicular, some horizontal. As the ball and the 
wheel lose momentum the ball strikos ^against the 
rods and finally is deflected into, one of the many 
little pockets or stalls facing the rim of the wheel. 

There are thirty-eight of these pockets; two 
are marked “0” and “00,” the other.s num¬ 
bered from one to thirty-six in an irregular and 
confusing order and painted alternately red and 
black. At each end of the table are thirty-six 
large squares correspondingly numbered and 


369 


THE STEEL DOOR 

coloured. The "0” and "00” are of a neutral 
colour. Whenever the ball falls in the "0” or 
"00” the bank takes the stakes, or sweeps the 
the board. The Monte Carlo wheel has only 
one "0,” while the typical American has two, 
and the Chinese has four. 

To one like myself who had read of the Conti¬ 
nental gambling-houses with the clink of gold 
pieces on the table, and the croupier with his 
wooden rake noisily raking in the winnings of the 
bank, the comparative silence of the American 
game comes as a surprise. 

As we advanced, we heard only the rattle of 
the ball, the click of the chips, and the monoto¬ 
nous tone of the spinner: "Twenty-three, black. 
Eight, red. Seventeen, black.” It was almost 
like the boys in a broker’s office calling off the 
quotations of the ticker and marking them up on 
the board. 

Leaning forward, almost oblivious to the rest, 
was Percival DeLong, a tall, lithe, handsome 
young man, whose boyish face ill comported with 
the marks of dissipation clearly outlined on it. 
Such a boy, it flashed across my mind, ought to 
be studying the possible plays of football of an 
evening in the field-house after his dinner at the 
training-table, rather, than the possible gyrations 
of the little platinum ball on the wheel. 

"Curse the luck!” he exclaimed, as "17” ap¬ 
peared again. 


370 


THE SILENT BULLET 


A Hebrew banker staked a pile of chips on the 
“17” to come up a third time. A murmur of ap¬ 
plause at his nerve ran through the circle. De- 
Long hesitated, as one who thought, “Seventeen 
has come out twice—the odds against its coming 
again are too great, even though the winnings 
would be fabulous, for a good stake.” He placed 
his next bet on another number. 

“He’s playing Lord Rosslyn’s system, to¬ 
night,” whispered my friend. 

The wheel spun, the ball rolled, and the 
croupier called again, “Seventeen, black.” A 
tremor of excitement ran through the crowd. It 
was almost unprecedented. 

DeLong, with a stifled oath, leaned back and 
scanned the faces about the table. 

“And ‘17’ has precisely the same chance of 
turning up in the next spin as if it had not al¬ 
ready had a run of three,” said a voice at my el¬ 
bow. 

It was Kennedy. The roulette-table needs no 
introduction when curious sequences are afoot. 
All are friends. 

“That’s the theory of Sir Hiram Maxim,” com¬ 
mented my friend, as he excused himself reluc¬ 
tantly for another appointment. “But no true 
gambler will believe it, monsieur, or at least act 
on it.” 

All eyes were turned on Kennedy, who made a 
gesture of polite deprecation, as if the remark of 


THE STEEL DOOR 371 

my friend were true, but—be nonchalantly placed 
bis chips on the “17.” 

“The odds against ‘17’ appearing four consec¬ 
utive times are some millions,” he went on, “and 
yet, having appeared three times, it is just as 
likely to appear again as before. It is the usual 
practice to avoid a number that has had a run, 
on the theory that some other number is more 
likely to come up than it is. That would be the 
case if it were drawing balls from a bag full of 
red and black balls—the more red ones drawn 
the smaller the chance of drawing another red 
one. But if the balls are put back in the bag 
after being drawn the chances of drawing a red 
one after three have been drawn are exactly the 
same as ever. If we toss a cent and heads ap¬ 
pear twelve times, that does not have the slightest 
effect on the thirteenth toss—there is still an 
even chance that it, too, will be heads. So if 4 17* 
had come up five times to-night, it would be just 
as likely to come the sixth as if the previous five 
had not occurred, and that despite the fact that 
before it has appeared at all odds against a run 
of the same number six times in succession are 
about two billion, four hundred and ninety-six 
million, and some thousands. Most systems are 
based on the old persistent belief that occur¬ 
rences of chance are affected in some way by oc¬ 
currences immediately preceding, but discon¬ 
nected physically. If we’ve had a run of black 


372 THE SILENT BULLET 

for twenty times, system says play the red for 
the twenty-first. But black is just as likely to 
turn up the twenty-first as if it were the first play 
of all. The confusion arises because a run of 
twenty on the black should happen once in one 
million, forty-eight thousand, five hundred and 
seventy-six coups. It would take ten years to 
make that many coups, and the run of twenty 
might occur once or any number of times in it. 
It is only when one deals with infinitely large 
numbers of coups that one can count on infinitely 
small variations in the mathematical results. 
This game does not go on for infinity—therefore 
anything, everything, may happen. Systems are 
based on the infinite; we play in the finite.” 

“You talk like a professor I had at the univer¬ 
sity,’’ ejaculated DeLong contemptuously as 
Craig finished his disquisition on the practical 
fallibility of theoretically infallible systems. 
Again DeLong carefully avoided the “17,” as 
well as the black. 

The wheel spun again; the ball rolled. The 
knot of spectators around the table watched with 
bated breath. 

Seventeen won! 

As Kennedy piled up his winnings supercili¬ 
ously, without even the appearance of triumph, a 
man behind me whispered, “A foreign nobleman 
with a system—watch him.” 

“Non, monsieur,” said Kennedy quickly, hav- 


THE STEEL DOOR 373 

ing overheard the remark, “ no system, sir. 
There is only one system of which I know.” 

‘ 1 What?” asked DeLong eagerly. 

Kennedy staked a large sum on the red to win. 
The black came up, and he lost. He doubled the 
stake and played again, and again lost. With 
amazing calmness Craig kept right on doubling. 

“The martingale,” I heard the man whisper 
behind me. “In other words, double or quit.” 

Kennedy was now in for some hundreds, a sum 
that was sufficiently large for him, but he doubled 
again, still cheerfully playing the red, and the 
red won. As he gathered up his chips he rose. 

“That’s the only system,” he said simply. 

“But, go on, go on,” came the chorus from 
about the table. 

“No,” said Kennedy quietly, “that is part of 
the system, too—to quit when you have won 
back your stakes and a little more.” 

“Huh!” exclaimed DeLong in disgust. “Sup¬ 
pose you were in for some thousands—you 
wouldn’t quit. If you had real sporting blood 
you wouldn’t quit, anyhow!” 

Kennedy calmly passed over the open insult, 
letting it be understood that he ignored this beard¬ 
less youth. 

“There is no way you can beat the game in the 
long run if you keep at it,” he answered simply, 
“It is mathematically impossible. Consider. 
We are Croesuses—we hire players to stake 


374 


THE SILENT BULLET 


money for us on every possible number at every 
coup. How do we come out! If there are no 
‘O’ or ‘00,’ we come out after each coup pre¬ 
cisely where we started—we are paying our own 
money back and forth among ourselves; we have 
neither more nor less. But with the ‘ 0 ’ and ‘ 00 ’ 
the bank sweeps the board every so often. It is 
only a question of time when, after paying our 
money back and forth among ourselves, it has all 
Bltered through the ‘0’ and ‘00’ into the bank. 
It is not a game of chance for the bank—ah, it is 
exact, mathematical— c’est une question d’ arith- 
metique, seulement, n’est-ce pas, messieurs?” 

“Perhaps,” admitted DeLong, “but it doesn’t 
explain why I am losing to-night while everyone 
else is winning.” 

“We are not winning,” persisted Craig. 
“After I have had a bite to eat I will demon¬ 
strate how to lose—by keeping on playing.” He 
led the way to the cafe. 

DeLong was too intent on the game to leave, 
even for refreshments. Now and then I saw him 
beckon to an attendant, who brought him a stiff 
drink of whiskey. For a moment his play seemed 
a little better, then he would drop back into his 
hopeless losing. For some reason or other his 
“system” failed absolutely. 

“You see, he is hopeless,” mused Kennedy over 
our light repast. “And yet of all gambling 
games roulette offers the player the best odds, 


THE STEEL DOOR 375 

far better than horse-racing, for instance. Our 
method has usually been to outlaw roulette and 
permit horse-racing; in other words, suppress the 
jnore favourable and permit the less favourable. 
However, we’re doing better now; we’re sup¬ 
pressing both. Of course what I say applies only 
to roulette when it is honestly played—DeLong 
would lose anyhow, I fear.” 

I started at Kennedy’s tone and whispered 
hastily: “What do you mean? Do you think the 
wheel is crooked?” 

“I haven’t a doubt of it,” he replied in an 
undertone. “That run of ‘17’ might happen— 
yes. But it is improbable. They let me win be¬ 
cause I was a new player—new players always 
win at first. It is proverbial, but the man who 
is running this game has made it look like a plati¬ 
tude. To satisfy myself on that point I am going 
to play again—until I have lost my winnings and 
am just square with the game. When I reach the 
point that I am convinced that some crooked work 
is going on I am going to try a little experiment, 
Walter. I want you to stand close to me so that 
no one can see what I am doing. Do just as I 
will indicate to you.” 

The gambling-room was now fast filling up with 
the first of the theatre crowd. DeLong’s table 
was the centre of attraction, owing to the high 
play. A group of young men of his set were com¬ 
miserating with him on his luck and discussing it 


376 THE SILENT BULLET 

with the finished air of roues of double their 
ages. He was doggedly following his system. 

Kennedy and I approached. 

“Ah, here is the philosophical stranger again,’’ 
DeLong exclaimed, catching sight of Kennedy. 
“Perhaps he can enlighten us on how to win at 
roulette by playing his own system.” 

“Au contraire, monsieur, let me demonstrate 
how to lose,” answered Craig with a smile that 
showed a row of faultless teeth beneath his black 
moustache, decidedly foreign. 

Kennedy played and lost, and lost again; then 
he won, hut in the main he lost. After one par¬ 
ticularly large loss I felt his arm on mine, draw¬ 
ing me closely to him. DeLong had taken a sort 
of grim pleasure in the fact that Kennedy, too, 
was losing. I found that Craig had paused in 
his play at a moment when DeLong had staked a 
large sum that a number below “18” would turn 
up—for five plays the numbers had been between 
“18” and “36.” Curious to see what Craig was 
doing, I looked cautiously down between us. All 
eyes were fixed on the wheel. Kennedy was hold¬ 
ing an ordinary compass in the crooked-up palm 
of his hand. The needle pointed at me, as I hap¬ 
pened to be standing north of it. 

The wheel spun. Suddenly the needle swung 
around to a point between the north and south 
poles, quivered a moment, and came to rest in 
that position. Then it swung back to the north. 


THE STEEL DOOR 377 

It was some seconds before I realised the sig¬ 
nificance of it. It bad pointed at the table—and 
DeLong bad lost again. -There was some elec¬ 
tric attachment at work. 

Kennedy and I exchanged glances, and he 
shoved the compass into my hand qnickly. “Yon 
watch it, Walter, while I play,” he whispered. 

Carefully concealing it, as he had done, yet 
holding it as close to the table as I dared I tried 
to follow two things at once without betraying 
myself. As near as I could make out, something 
happened at every play. I would not go so far as 
to assert that whenever the larger stakes were on 
a certain number the needle pointed to the op¬ 
posite side of the wheel, for it was impossible to 
be at all accurate about it. Once I noticed the 
needle did not move at all, and he won. But on 
the next play he staked what I knew must be the 
remainder of his winnings on what seemed a very 
good chance. Even before the wheel was re¬ 
volved and the ball set rolling, the needle swung 
about, and when the platinum ball came to rest 
Kennedy rose from the table, a loser. 

“By George though,” exclaimed DeLong, 
grasping his hand. “I take it all back. You are 
a good loser, sir. I wish I could take it as well 
as you do. But then, I’m in too deeply. There 
are too many ‘ markers’ with the house up against 
me.” 

Senator Danfield had just come in to see how 


378 THE SILENT BULLET 

things were going. He was a sleek, fat man, and 
it was amazing to see with what deference his 
victims treated him. He affected not to have 
heard what DeLong said, but I could imagine 
what he was thinking, for I had heard that he 
had scant sympathy with anyone after he ‘ 4 went 
broke’’—another evidence of the camaraderie 
and good-fellowship that surrounded the game. 

Kennedy’s next remark surprised me. 4 ‘Oh, 
your luck will change, D. L.,”—everyone referred 
to him as “D. L.,” for gambling-houses have an 
aversion for real names and greatly prefer in¬ 
itials—“your luck will change presently. Keep 
right on with your system. It’s the best you can 
do to-night, short of quitting.” 

“I’ll never quit,” replied the young man under 
his breath. 

Meanwhile Kennedy and I paused on the way. 
out to compare notes. My report of the behav¬ 
iour of the compass only confirmed him in his 
opinion. 

As we turned to the stairs we took in a full 
view of the room. A faro-layout was purchasing 
Senator Danfield a new touring-car every hour 
at the expense of the players. Another group 
was gathered about the hazard-board, deriving 
evident excitement, though I am sure none could 
have given an intelligent account of the chances 
they were taking. Two roulette-tables were now 
going full blast, the larger crowd still about De- 


THE STEEL DOOB 379 

Long’s. Snatches of conversation came to ns 
now and then, and I canght one sentence, ‘ 1 De- 
Long’s in for over a hundred thousand now on 
the week’s play, I understand; poor hoy—that 
about cleans him up.” 

“The tragedy of it, Craig,” I whispered, but 
he did not hear. 

With his hat tilted at a rakish angle and his 
opera-coat over his arm he sauntered over for a 
last look. 

“Any luck yet?” he asked carelessly. 

“The devil—no,” returned the boy. 

“Do you know what my advice to you is, the 
advice of a man who has seen high play every¬ 
where from Monte Carlo to Shanghai?” 

“What?” 

“Play until your luck changes if it takes until 
to-morrow.” 

A supercilious smile crossed Senator Dan- 
field’s fat face. 

“I intend to,” and the haggard young face 
turned again to the table and forgot us. 

“For Heaven’s sake, Kennedy,” I gasped as 
we went down the stairway, “what do you mean 
by giving him such advice—you?” 

“Not so loud, Walter. He’d have done it any¬ 
how, I suppose, but I want him to keep at it. 
This night means life or death to Percival De- 
Long and his mother, too. Come on, let’s get out 
of this.” 


380 THE SILENT BULLET 

We passed the formidable steel door and 
gained the street, jostled by the late-comers who 
had left the after-theatre restaurants for a few 
moments of play at the famous club that so long 
had defied the police. 

Almost gaily Kennedy swung along toward 
Broadway. At the corner he hesitated, glanced 
up and down, caught sight of the furniture-van 
in the middle of the next blocks The driver was 
tugging at the harness of the horses, apparently 
fixing it. We walked along and stopped beside 
it. 

“ Drive around in front of the Vesper Club 
slowly/ ’ said Kennedy as the driver at last looked 
up. 

The van lumbered ahead, and we followed it 
casually. Around the corner it turned. We 
turned also. My heart was going like a sledge¬ 
hammer as the critical moment approached. My 
head was in a whirl. What would that gay 
throng back of those darkened windows down the 
street think if they knew what was being pre¬ 
pared for them? 

On, like the Trojan horse, the van lumbered. 
A man went into the Vesper Club, and I saw the 
negro at the door eye the oncoming van suspi¬ 
ciously. The door banged shut. 

The next thing I knew, Kennedy had ripped 
off his disguise, had flung himself up behind the 
van, and had swung the doors open. A dozen 


THE STEEL DOOR 381 

men with axes and sledge-hammers swarmed ont 
and up the steps of the club. 

“Call the reserves, O’Connor,” cried Kennedy. 
“Watch the roof and the back yard.” 

The driver of the van hastened to send in the 
call. 

The sharp raps of the hammers and the axes 
sounded on the thick brass-hound oak of the out¬ 
side door in quick succession. There was a 
scurry of feet inside, and we could hear a grating 
noise and a terrific jar as the inner, steel door 
shut. 

“A raid! A raid on the Vesper Club!” 
shouted a belated passer-by. The crowd swarmed 
around from Broadway, as if it were noon in¬ 
stead of midnight. 

Banging and ripping and tearing, the outer 
door was slowly forced. As it crashed in, the 
quick gongs of several police patrols sounded. 
The reserves had been called out at the proper 
moment, too late for them to “tip off” the club 
that there was going to be a raid, as frequently 
occurs. 

Disregarding the melee behind me, I leaped 
through the wreckage with the other raiders. 
The steel door barred all further progress with 
its cold blue impassibility. How were we to sur¬ 
mount this last and most formidable barrier? 

I turned in time to see Kennedy and O’Connor 
hurrying up the steps with a huge tank studded 


382 THE SILENT BULLET 

with bolts like a boiler, while two other men ca*v 
ried a second tank. 

‘‘ There/’ ordered Craig, “set the oxygen 
there,’’ as he placed his own tank on the opposite 
side. 

Out of the tanks stout tubes led, with stop¬ 
cocks and gages at the top. From a case under 
his arm Kennedy produced a curious arrange¬ 
ment like a huge hook, with a curved neck and a 
sharp beak. Really it consisted of two metal 
tubes which ran into a sort of cylinder, or mixing 
chamber, above the nozzle, while parallel to them 
ran a third separate tube with a second nozzle of 
its own. Quickly he joined the ends of the tubes 
from the tanks to the metal hook, the oxygen- 
tank being joined to two of the tubes of the hook, 
and the second tank being joined to the other. 
With a match he touched the nozzle gingerly. 
Instantly a hissing, spitting noise followed, and 
an intense blinding needle of flame. 

“Now for the oxy-acetylene blowpipe,” cried 
Kennedy as he advanced toward the steel door. 
“We’ll make short work of this.” 

Almost as he said it, the steel beneath the blow¬ 
pipe became incandescent. 

Just to test it, he cut off the head of a three- 
quarter-inch steel rivet—taking about a quarter 
of a minute to do it. It was evident, though, that 
that would not weaken the door appreciably, even 
if the rivets were all driven through. Still they 


THE STEEL DOOR 383 

gave a starting-point for the flame of the high- 
pressure acetylene torch. 

It was a brilliant sight. The terrific heat from 
the first nozzle caused the metal to glow under 
the torch as if in an open-hearth furnace. From 
the second nozzle issued a stream of oxygen 
under which the hot metal of the door was com¬ 
pletely consumed. The force of the blast as the 
compressed oxygen and acetylene were expelled 
carried a fine spray of the disintegrated metal 
visibly before it. And yet it was not a big hole 
that it made—scarcely an eighth of an inch wide, 
but clear and sharp as if a buzz-saw were eating 
its way through a three-inch plank of white pine. 

With tense muscles Kennedy held this terrific 
engine of destruction and moved it as easily as 
if it had been a mere pencil of light. He was 
easily the calmest of us all as we crowded about 
him at a respectful distance. 

“Acetylene, as you may know,” he hastily ex¬ 
plained, never pausing for a moment in his work, 
“is composed of carbon and hydrogen. As it 
burns at the end of the nozzle it is broken into 
carbon and hydrogen—the carbon gives the high 
temperature, and the hydrogen forms a cone that 
protects the end of the blowpipe from being it¬ 
self burnt up. ’ 7 

“But isn’t it dangerous?” I asked, amazed at 
the skill with which he handled the blowpipe. 

“Not particularly—when you know how to do 


IF SILENT BULLET 

.1 is a porous asbestos packing sat¬ 

urated witn acetone, under pressure. Thus I can 
carry acetylene safely, for it is dissolved, and the 
possibility of explosion is minimised. This mix¬ 
ing chamber by which I am holding the torch, 
where the oxygen and acetylene mix, is also de¬ 
signed in such a way as to prevent a flash-back. 
The best thing about this style of blowpipe is the 
ease with which it can be transported and the 
curious uses—like the present—to which it can 
be put.” 

He paused a moment to test the door. All was 
silence on the other side. The door itself was as 
firm as ever. 

“Huh!” exclaimed one of the detectives be¬ 
hind me, “these new-fangled things ain’t all 
they’re cracked up to be. Now if I was runnin* 
this show, I’d dynamite that door to kingdom 
come.” 

“And wreck the house and kill a few people,” 
I returned, hotly resenting the criticism of Ken¬ 
nedy. Kennedy affected not to hear. 

“When I shut off the oxygen in this second 
jet,” he resumed as if nothing had been said, 
“you see the torch merely heats the steel. I 
can get a heat of approximately sixty-three hun¬ 
dred degrees Fahrenheit, and the flame will ex¬ 
ert a pressure of fifty pounds to the square inch.” 
» “Wonderful!” exclaimed O’Connor, who had 
not heard the remark of his subordinate and was 


THE STEEL D0( 


385 


watching with undisguised adr 'en- 

nedy, how did yon ever think ox g?” 

“Why, it’s used for welding, you know,” an¬ 
swered Craig as he continued to work calmly in 
the growing excitement. “I first saw it in actual 
use in mending a cracked cylinder in an automo¬ 
bile. The cylinder was repaired without being 
taken out at all. I’ve seen it weld new teeth and 
build up old worn teeth on gearing, as good as 
new.” 

He paused to let us see the terrifically heated 
metal under the flame. 

“You remember when we were talking on the 
drive about the raid, O’Connor? A car-load of 
scrap-iron went by on the railroad below us. 
They use this blowpipe to cut it up, frequently. 
That’s what gave me the idea. See. I turn on 
the oxygen now in this second nozzle. The blow¬ 
pipe is no longer an instrument for joining met¬ 
als together, but for cutting them asunder. The 
steel burns just as you, perhaps, have seen a 
watch-spring burn in a jar of oxygen. Steel, 
hard or soft, tempered, annealed, chrome, or 
Harveyised, it all burns just as fast and just as 
easily. And it’s cheap too. This raid may cost 
a couple of dollars, as far as the blowpipe is con¬ 
cerned—quite a difference from the thousands of 
dollars’ loss that would follow an attempt to blow 
the door in.” 

The last remark was directed quietly at the 


386 THE SILENT BULLET 

doubting detective. He had nothing to say. We 
stood in awe-struck amazement as the torch 
slowly, inexorably, traced a thin line along the 
edge of the door. 

Minute after minute sped by, as the line burned 
by the blowpipe cut straight from top to bottom. 
It seemed hours to me. Was Kennedy going to 
slit the whole door and let it fall in with a crash ? 

No,. I could see that even in his cursory exami¬ 
nation of the door he had gained a pretty good 
knowledge of the location of the bolts imbedded 
in the steel. One after another he was cutting 
clear through and severing them, as if with a 
superhuman knife. 

What was going on on the other side of the 
door, I wondered. I could scarcely imagine the 
consternation of the gamblers caught in their 
own trap. 

With a quick motion Kennedy turned off the 
acetylene and oxygen. The last bolt had been 
severed. A gentle push of the hand, and he 
swung the once impregnable door on its deli¬ 
cately poised hinges as easily as if he had merely 
said, “Open Sesame.’ ’ The robbers’ cave 
yawned before us. 

We made a rush up the stairs. Kennedy was 
first, O’Connor next, and myself scarcely a step 
behind, with the rest of O’Connor’s men at our 
heels. 

I think we were all prepared for some sort of 


THE STEEL DOOE 


387 


gun-play, for the crooks were desperate charac¬ 
ters, and I myself was surprised to encounter 
nothing but physical force, which was quickly 
overcome. 

In the now disordered richness of the rooms, 
waving his 44 John Doe” warrants in one hand 
and his pistol in the other, O’Connor shouted: 

44 You’re all under arrest, gentlemen. If you re¬ 
sist further it will go hard with you.” 

Crowded now in one end of the room in speech¬ 
less amazement was the late gay party of gam¬ 
blers, including Senator Danfield himself. They 
had reckoned on toying with any chance hut this. 
The pale white face of DeLong among them was 
like a spectre, as he stood staring blankly about 
and still insanely twisting the roulette wheel be¬ 
fore him. 

Kennedy advanced toward the table with an ax 
which he had seized from one of our men. A well- 
directed blow shattered the mechanism of the deli¬ 
cate wheel. 

44 DeLong,” he said, 44 I’m not going to talk to 
you like your old professor at the university, nor 
like your recent friend, the Frenchman with a sys¬ 
tem. This is what you have been up against, my 
boy. Look. ’ ’ 

His forefinger indicated an ingenious, but now 
tangled and twisted, series of minute wires and 
electro-magnets in the broken wheel before us. 
Delicate brushes led the current into the wheel. 


388 


THE SILENT BULLET 


With another blow of his axe, Craig disclosed 
wires running down through the leg of the table 
to the floor and under the carpet to buttons oper¬ 
ated by the man who ran the game. 

“Wh-what does it mean?” asked DeLong 
blankly. 

“It means that you had little enough chance to 
win at a straight game of roulette. But the 
wheel is very rarely straight, even with all the 
Qdds in favour of the bank, as they are. This 
game was electrically controlled. Others are me¬ 
chanically controlled by what is sometimes called 
the ‘mule’s ear,’ and other devices. You can’t 
win. These wires and magnets can be made 
to attract the little ball into any pocket the 
operator desires. Each one of those pockets con¬ 
tains a little electro-magnet. One set of magnets 
in the red pockets is connected with one button 
under the carpet and a battery. The other set 
in the black pockets is connected with another 
button and the battery. This ball is not really 
<*f platinum. Platinum is non-magnetic. It is sim¬ 
ply a soft iron hollow ball, plated with platinum. 
Whichever set of electro-magnets is energised at¬ 
tracts the ball and by this simple method it is in 
the power of the operator to let the ball go to red 
or black as he may wish. Other similar arrange¬ 
ments control the odd or even, and other com¬ 
binations from other push buttons. A special ar¬ 
rangement took care of that ‘17’ freak. There 


THE STEEL DOOR 


389 

isn’t an honest gambling-machine in the whole 
place—I might almost say the whole city. The 
whole thing is crooked from start to finish-^the 
men, the machines, the—” 

“That machine could be made to beat me by 
turning up a run of 6 17 ’ any number of times, or 
red or black, or odd or even, over ‘18’ or under 
‘18,’ or anything?” 

“Anything, DeLong.” 

“And I never had a chance,” he repeated, med¬ 
itatively fingering the wires. “They broke me 
to-night. Danfield”—DeLong turned, looking 
dazedly about in the crowd for his former friend, 
then his hand shot into his pocket, and a little 
ivory-handled pistol flashed out—‘ ‘ Danfield, your 
blood is on your own head. You have ruined me.” 

Kennedy must have been expecting something 
of the sort, for he seized the arm of the young 
man, weakened by dissipation, and turned the 
pistol upward as if it had been in the grasp of a 
mere child. 

A blinding flash followed in the farthest corner 
of the room and a huge puff of smoke. Before I 
could collect my wits another followed in the op¬ 
posite corner. The room was filled with a dense 
smoke. 

Two men were scuffling at my feet. One was 
Kennedy. As I dropped down quickly to help 
him I saw that the other was Danfield, his face 
purple with the violence of the struggle. 


390 


THE SILENT BULLET 


“Don’t be alarmed, gentlemen,” I beard O’Con¬ 
nor shout, “the explosions were only the flash¬ 
lights of the official police photographers. We 
now have the evidence complete. Gentlemen, you 
will now go down quietly to the patrol-wagons 
below, two by two. If you have anything to say, 
say it to the magistrate of the night court.” 

“Hold his arms, Walter,” panted Kennedy. 

I did. With a dexterity that would have done 
credit to a pickpocket, Kennedy reached into Dan- 
field’s pocket and pulled out some papers. 

Before the smoke had cleared and order had 
been restored, Craig exclaimed: “Let him up, 
Walter. Here, DeLong, here are the I. 0. U.’s 
against you. Tear them up—they are not ever 
a debt of honour.” 


THE END 


ZANE GREY’S NOVELS 

tJay be had wharever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list 


THE ^IGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

fare W,, society . ^ 1 bu r s a ranch which becomes the center of frontier war- 

r ya superintendent rescues her when she is captured by bandit*. A 
surprising- climax brings the story to a delightful dose. 

THE RAINBOW TRAIL 

«&^iflSSK^i ; a™k O e . beC0mM *”“ d ' r " to ““«•“»' 

DESERT GOLD 

of T the th ® recen t ^Prising along the border, and ends with the finding 

Ot the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story’s heroine. 

RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

±/ lCt ^l S 3 W romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon authority 
iuled. The prosecution of Jane Withersteen is the theme_of the story, 

THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN 

\t C0T A °* a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones, known as the 
, f Ar ? e j ncan bl *°n, across the Arizona desert and of a hunt in “that 
wonderful country of deep canons and giant pines.’* 

THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT 

A lovely girl,> who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young New 
Ji-nglander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become 
the second wife of one of the Mormons—Well, that’s the problem of this great story. 

THE SHORT STOP 

The young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and fortune as 
A professional ball player. His hard knocks at the start are followed by such success 
as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty ought to win. 

BETTY ZANE 

This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful young sister of 
old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers. 


THE LONE STAR RA^G IR 

After killing a man in self defense, Buck Duane becomes an outlaw along the 
Texas border.. In a camp on the Mexican side of the river, he finds a young girl held 
prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down upon himself tne wrath of her 
captors and henceforth is hunted on one side by honest men, on the other by outlaws. 

THE BORDER LEGION 


Joan Randle, in a spirit of anger, sent Jim Cleve out to a lawless Western mining 
camp, to prove his mettle. Then realizing that she loved him—she followed him out. 
On her wav, s re is captured by a bandit band, and trouble begins when she shoots 
Kells, the leader—and nurses him to health a^ain. Here enters another romance-^ 
when Joan, disguised as an outlaw, observes Jim, in the throes of dissipation. A gol<$ 
strike, a thrilling robbery—gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly. 


THE LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS, 

By Helen Cody Wetmore and Zane Grey 

The life story of Colonel William F. Cody, “ Buffalo Bill,” as told by his sister and 
Zane Grey. It begins with his boyhood in Iowa and his first encounter with an In¬ 
dian. We see “Bill” as a pony express rider, then near Fort Sumter as Chief ot 
the Scouts, and later engaged in the most dangerous Indian campaigns. There i 9 
also a very interesting account of the travels of “The Wild West” Show No char¬ 
acter In public life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of America than 
“ Buffalo Bill,” whose daring and bravery made him famous. 


Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 







































NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY 

WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE 

HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED. 

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grossst and Dunlap's list 


MAVERICKS. 

A tale of the western frontier, where the * ‘rustler, ” whose dep¬ 
redations are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, 
abounds. One of the sweetest love stories ever told._/ 

A TEXAS RANGER. 

How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried 
law into the mesqu.it, saved the life of an innocent man after a series 
of thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then 
passed through deadly peril to ultimate happiness. 

WYOMING. 

In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured 
the breezy charm of “cattleland,” and brings out the turbid life of 
the frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. 

RIDGWAY OF MONTANA. 

The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where poli¬ 
tics and mining industries are the religion of the country. The 
political contest, the love scene, and the tine character drawing give 
this story great strength and charm. 

BUCKY O'CONNOR, 

Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, re* 
plete with the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash 
and absorbing fascination of style and plot. 

C ROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT. 

A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of 
a bitter feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine 
is a most unusual woman and her love story reaches a culmination 
that is fittingly characteristic of the great free West. 

BRAND BLOTTERS . 

A story of the Cattle Range. This story brings out the turbid 
life of the frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charm¬ 
ing love interest running through its 320 pages. 


Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 


■ifk 


























J 










